


Them That Dream

by isisrising (Noxtorious)



Series: Them That Dream [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Heartbreak, Multi, Post-Game(s), Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxtorious/pseuds/isisrising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor gave her life to save Thedas in the final fight against Corypheus. Cullen tries-and fails-to adjust. Now in middle age, with his soul broken and his life in shambles, Cullen finds a second chance at life--and with it, uncovers truths about the year that changed his life forever.</p><p>Formerly known as "In the Doorway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Maker's Hand (Cullen)

**Author's Note:**

> This'll be a predominantly Cullen-centric fic, despite shifts in POV.

_9:62 Dragon_

The sun over Denerim shone beautifully that summer's afternoon. Trees, their leaves full and green, rustled in the calm breeze. Flowers swayed gently, their delicate fragrance barely tangible in the air. Up above, clouds drifted by, fat and lazy, and even the scar in the sky seemed faded. People bustled to and fro in the Marketplace, occupied with what there was to do and who there was to see. The Maker truly seemed to smile upon the land, and all was good. Between the beauty of the day and the bustle of life, however, some things were bound to be forgotten-one being the vagabond resting a short distance away from the Chantry. If he went unnoticed, however, it was because he wished to be.

And if the pathetic derelict had once commanded troops with legendary skill, it was irrelevant, for now he went ignored. And though the late Inquisitor herself had once whispered his name tenderly in the night, it amounted to naught: now he was nameless, nothing but an old madman. But the Maker's hand is in all things, and on that summer's day, He placed His hand upon the derelict's back and nudged him towards his destiny once again. 

Until then, it had been a good day for the sorry vagabond too. The weather was beautiful, and everyone in the marketplace was relaxed; all the makings of a successful day. He had long ago fallen into a routine: at first light,he made his way to the Marketplace, and spent the day weaving through the stands, pilfering a banana or some other soft fruit, all the while stealthily collecting dropped coin. In the evenings, he would make his way into the outskirts of town, where the nightmares could take him in private. On bad days (and there were quite a few), the man's mind threatened to take him apart where he stood, and he knew to flee the Marketplace before the screaming started. This day was one of his best, however, and as the derelict relaxed in the shade, he mused on his plans for the evening. He'd collected enough coin to get himself a night at an inn. He could probably get a bowl of gruel, and the thought filled him with satisfaction; he hadn't eaten decently in nearly two weeks.

Deep in his reverie, the homeless man barely registered a notice being nailed to the Chantry's doors. Soon enough, though, the crowd trickled towards the Chantry, until at last it seemed as though everyone in Denerim had congregated at the doors. Just as some Templars rode out to disperse the crowd, the derelict swiftly wandered away, invisible as ever. It wasn't until sunset, when the Marketplace was nearly closed, that the old man wandered back to the Chantry's doors, curious to see what had roused Denerim into a frenzy. Drawing near, the paper was clearly an announcement, and in the dimming light, the vagabond saw exactly what had caused such a scene. 

_Divine Victoria I is pleased to announce, in conjunction with His Majesty, King Alistair I of Ferelden, a treatment for those persons addicted to lyrium. Those who wish to seek treatment will henceforth be able to do so at their local charities..._

The man stopped reading, his mind blank and his mouth agape in shock. A treatment for lyrium? Could he possibly overcome this, once and for all? He turned away, and all thought of his nightly routine washed away, sat on the steps to the Chantry as the moon rose. 


	2. Hopes and Dreams (Josephine and Leliana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine and Leliana have a tea party. Leliana faces her future, and Josephine is about to have a wish granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd forgotten to mention: I don't own Dragon Age or any of the NPC's.

Josephine stood on the balcony outside her office at Skyhold, another long day having come to an end. An unseasonably cool breeze blew by, and she shuddered, tucking a windswept lock of hair back in place. Soon she would be meeting Leliana for tea-something pleasant and familiar, after what seemed like a lifetime of upheaval. She sucked in a deep breath, and despite the slight nip in the air, decided to take a walk.

"Ambassador!" came a soft voice. Josephine turned, relaxing when she saw the voice belonged to a servant-she wasn't sure she could talk to another noble.

"Yes?" said Josephine, her voice full of measured patience.

"What shall I tell Sister Nightingale if she comes looking for you, Ambassador Montilyet?"

"Tell her I am in the garden, please and thank you," Josephine said, her Antivan accent still thick after so many years.

With that, Josephine swiftly glided out of the fortress and into the garden, past the herbs and flowers, to the tree growing in front of the private cove. Its seeds had been gifted by Clan Lavellan twenty years ago, and now, it had become something to behold. In winter, it looked somber, but come spring, it's blossoms were beautiful, and the sweet grass that grew around it filled the garden with a beautiful aroma. Now, in early summer, it's large leaves shone resplendently in the sun, like emeralds. Over the years, it had become known as a place of contemplation, as well as the place to pay homage to the late Lady Inquisitor Lavellan. Now, Josephine sat, smoothed her dress, and leaned against the tree. She was so deep in thought she failed to notice Leliana approaching her until her fingers were on Josephine's shoulder.

"Seeking counsel from our Lady Inquisitor?" Leliana asked lightly, a small smile on her lips.

"Ah, you've got me; clever as always." Josephine smiled, but sadness lingered on her face. There was a pause before she added, quietly, "It's a beautiful tree, isn't it?"

"Not half so beautiful as she was," said Leliana, staring up into the leaves. "Now, Josie, let's get to tea. We shouldn't waste time." 

"Agreed," said Josephine, and with that, they walked out and off to tea.

On the way, they chatted pleasantly, and Josephine was glad for the interruption; it allowed her to focus on what gossip was happening in Ferelden and Orlais, what Cassandra was doing as Divine, what secrets the nobles around Skyhold kept guarded. Arriving back at Josephine's quarters, the two women fell back into their old, familiar friendship. It was easy and sincere, and those were the easiest traits to lose in their jobs.

Josephine wondered how she'd manage that with Leliana leaving the Inquisition soon.

As the tray was laid out, and the tea poured, Josephine settled back, a knot in her chest tightening. The Divine's Left Hand had recently passed on after a long illness, and Cassandra had tapped Leliana to serve as the Left Hand of the Divine once again-a position Leliana was all too eager to take, in Josephine's opinion. Even now, she could recall the moment Leliana told her what would be happening. 

"Isn't it so interesting, Josie?" Leliana had said, all too casually, her eyes brimming enigmatically. "Yet again I'll be Left Hand to a close friend." Then she'd turned and flitted off to the rookery, absorbed in the work once again. Josephine had forced a practiced, pleasant smile on her face and gone back to her offices to talk to another bratty Orlesian noble. They hadn't spoken for the rest of that day.

Realizing that Leliana wasn't speaking, and probably hadn't for a while, Josephine shook herself of her thoughts and looked up to find Leliana staring at her.

"I'm so sorry," Josephine began, "I was distracted-"

"No need to apologize, Josie," said Leliana. "My mind has been elsewhere also."

"Oh? The preparations to be the Left Hand are wearing on you?" Inwardly, Josephine kicked herself for sounding so eager.

"No, nothing like that," said Leliana, shaking her head. "It's just...today I was busy training Elise-my replacement-and it occurred to me..." Leliana trailed off absently. Josephine covered Leliana's hand with her own, and she continued. 

"I realized that he-Cullen- must have been doing the same thing, with Rylen. At the time, there was so much going on, with the Inquisitor having just passed...I allowed myself to ignore it. I couldn't today, Josie." There was a long pause, as Josephine gathered her words.

"I think you always knew...I think we all did," Josephine finally said, her voice steady. "Just as I think we both know he's probably gone, now," she continued, her voice soft.

"But never forgotten,"said Leliana. "After all, you were the one who pushed for the lyrium treatment, Josie. It was you who continued encouraging sobriety among the Templars, and it was _you_ who pushed Cassandra into launching the lyrium initiative as soon as the treatment was proven safe."

"True," admitted Josephine. "But it was also tactically advantageous." 

"No," said Leliana. "Tactical advantage would be to have simply destroyed the red lyrium veins, and stopped there." "There is no shame in admitting you cared about the Commander. We all did-we still do." 

"You're right," said Josephine, a touch surly. "But still, it won't bring him back."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't good of you, nor does that mean it wasn't necessary," said Leliana, her tone serious. "Try not to sound so bitter in your old age," she added, a hint of mirth in her voice.

"You're right, again," Josephine said with a sigh. "It's just...I miss them. As I will soon miss you."

At that, Leliana, who'd been staring off, met Josephine's gaze sharply again. "Don't be silly. It is the Divine's left hand that extends, right? Why would it not extend to you, hmm?" 

At that, Josephine smiled genuinely for the first time that day, and with that, the tea party had ended. With the table cleared and the room emptied, Josephine was once again alone with her thoughts.  She was nearing fifty, and alone, her life devoted to the Inquisition. She had married, according to her parents' wishes, and it had been a boon to both the Montilyet family and the Inquisition's funds-and the wedding had certainly been beautiful, just as she planned- but they had no time for each other, and aside from a few letters exchanged each year and a few nights of passion at the beginning of their marriage, Josephine was married in name only. 

She chalked up her marriage as another casualty of the Inquisition. Right along with the Inquisitor's life, Leliana's happiness, Cullen's sanity...and that last one in particular had been horrible to watch. Having prepared for bed, she reached into a dresser and pulled out an old, leatherbound journal. Josephine thumbed through it, listening to the swoosh of the turning pages. Here were Inquisitor Lavellan's unfiltered words and thoughts, right up to the day she left to fight Corypheus. Ever since she'd died, Josephine had been using it to gain insight into how the late Inquisitor would've viewed things and inferred a course of action from there. Tomorrow, Josephine would order the Inquisitor's letters and reports brought out to her from the archives, in the hopes that Lavellan would've had some insight into a problem.

Her hands on the old journal, Josephine was reminded of when she'd first laid her hands on it. _The Inquisitor will live on_ , she thinks; _she can still change Thedas_. As Josephine fell asleep, she was unaware that she was about to be proven right.


	3. Ideals (Cassandra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How seldom does reality match the ideal, Cassandra thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A non-dialogue chapter.

The sun at high noon made the Grand Cathedral sparkle as though the Maker had laid each stone himself. It filled Cassandra-Divine Victoria I, as she was called now-with awe. When she left her offices in a few moments, she'd see it up close.

The past two weeks had been constant upheaval-no. All twenty years of her position as Divine so far had been upheaval. Too radical, some had called her.  _Ha!_  Cassandra thought. If they feared her changes, they should thank the Maker that it was she who was elected Divine and not Leliana, or Vivienne-Cassandra could scarcely imagine how Thedas would react to having a mage on the Sunburst throne-never mind one as Loyalist as Vivienne. No, Cassandra decided, this was her duty to fulfill and her burden to carry. That burden, though glorious, had grown awfully heavy. When Josephine had written her early in Wintermarch, announcing the Inquisition had finally developed a treatment for lyrium withdrawal and addiction, Cassandra had nearly gone to the Maker's side then and there. But there were responsibilities to be carried out before she could even begin to entertain those thoughts. For years, she had been balancing the Chantry's relationship with templars and mages, and Cassandra had settled into her role as Divine Victoria I barely a year before she'd tested the waters, trying to break the Chantry's leash on its templars.

It took fifteen years before her suggestion was not met with immediate hostility, and while Josephine had kept momentum going outside the Chantry as best she could, Cassandra had to start the action in Val Royeaux. She recalled this as she rose from her desk and headed out to the gardens outside. In truth, while the two weeks since the unveiling of the Lyrium Initiative was hard, they were manageable compared to the years of preparation. Those...Maker, they had been a trial by fire, with the last year as one of the hardest of her life-and that included the year after the Inquisitor died. 

Though the passing years and stability in Ferelden and Orlais had made them complacent, the Chantry, as predicted, was resistant. The first year alone, there had been little but rebuttals and rhetoric-and more than once, there had been threats to relieve Cassandra of her position as Divine. Through it all, she had held her head high, confident she was enacting the Maker's will, and so would make it through. It was a tremendous help, of course, to have Vivienne installed as First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Ser Barris as Knight-Divine. Their support had carried her efforts pretty far, until last year. With word the treatment was close to completion, the gravity of the situation led to increased scrutiny. The Grand Clerics had summoned a council to hammer out the future of the Chantry with the treatment so close at hand. 

In the end, the Chantry would still gain an immense amount of money from its lyrium trade, as the mages still needed it for spellcasting. The templars would still continue to take lyrium until their powers reached an optimal point, at which point, they would begin the treatment. The method for procuring treatment, of course, was to pass into the hands of the Chantry-and thus the Chantry's funds would be bolstered by both the lyrium trade _and_ the lyrium treatment. As Divine Victoria, Cassandra should've been-and was-pleased. The Chantry had condensed its power and wealth while granting its Templar Order and Circles of Magi more autonomy-and thus more popularity with Thedas, especially Ferelden. It made negotiations that much easier with King Alistair, in any case. 

As Cassandra, though, she could not help feeling as though she hadn't done enough. It was those thoughts which lingered in her head as she finally reached the garden. It was exquisite this time of year. Orchids, lilacs and lavender added a soft, beautiful color to the manicured garden. In a far corner, Cassandra sat on a bench, leaned over and picked a rose. Inhaling its scent deeply, she allowed her mind to wander. 

In a more ideal world, she could have gotten this done years ago: with Inquisitor Lavellan to give her support in person, the Chantry's power could've been curbed even further. But she was dead now-as was Commander Cullen..or was he? Legally, he'd been declared dead years ago; Cassandra knew as much. But the reality was that nobody had found a body-and after a few years, the rumors that surrounded his disappearance ensured the general public wasn't even looking. And, as she knew from his past experiences, the man had a knack for staying alive. Cassandra sincerely hoped Cullen was dead. She'd read the letters from Skyhold-death was preferable to the cancerous grief that claimed him. He deserved better in the end...they all did.

But what about her? Hadn't she received the best outcome? Cassandra had been chosen by the Maker to embody His perfection and spread the word of His glory. And in the process, she had managed to reform the Chantry, cleanse it-somewhat-of corruption. She was constantly working-and she was as fierce in her battles within the Grand Cathedral's walls as she had been on the field in the Inquisition's heyday. In quiet moments like these, though, Cassandra found herself ruminating more and more on her happiness than her duties. Cassandra twirled the rose around in her fingers, her gaze lingering on the soft red petals. In another life, she thought, it would be Regalyan picking these flowers for her, reading poetry to her under the stars-and wasn't that just as wonderful as a life of service, in its own way? At the very least, it was happier, if not more satisfying...

Cassandra rid herself of those thoughts. It wouldn't do to dwell on things beyond her control-and it was downright blasphemous to question the Maker's plan for her, especially as Divine. Regalyan was part of her past, and the past was meant to be learned from-not dwelled upon, not feared. Besides, Regalyan was at the Maker's side now, and she always took a measure of comfort in that, more so now in her middle age. She looked up at the sky. The sun still shone brightly, but Cassandra knew evening was just around the corner. With an amused snort, Cassandra rose, straightening her shoulders. A breeze rustled her bob, tickling her where it fell just below her chin. With a huff, she first readjusted her bangs, then ran a hand down to smooth the rest of her hair. Turning sharply, she rose from the bench and walked out of the garden, rose still in hand, full of renewed purpose. Standing in the archway of the garden, Cassandra spared a last glance over her shoulder at the garden, then strode back into the Cathedral, her robes brilliant in the afternoon sun.


	4. All That Ever Was (Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past echoes in Alistair's ears, again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be canon divergence.

Alistair leaned back in the throne: today was a good day. The Lyrium Initiative had been a resounding success-so much so that nearly every Chantry across Ferelden was in need of extra support. As a show of solidarity, he convinced the Bannorn-as well as his own court-to volunteer some of their own staff to their local Chantries. Alistair had taken the first step, approving a list of people in his court to be sent to be dispersed. His popularity throughout Ferelden hadn't been so high since he'd first taken the throne. His son, Alexander was coming home after a three week excursion to Highever. Later tonight, the head chef would unveil something called a cheesecake, which sounded wonderful. 

Now, he only needed to hear this last case, and he could end court for the day.

"...and so, Your Majesty, as the walnuts fell on my property, I declare that the tree should be mine also!" said the bann of...Alistair had forgotten hours ago, once his disbelief had faded to irritation. 

"But, Sire, the roots of the tree grow on my property, and so I demand that the tree not only be declared mine, but that Bann Ferrenly return those walnuts that fell on his property, as those are mine also!" cried the other bann.

Alistair just barely avoided rolling his eyes as he thought of a solution. It would have to be something just as petty as the Bannorn, but clever enough to make him seem fair, especially after that deal and- _ah_.

"I have determined a solution," said Alistair in his most kingly voice. "You shall both, individually, pick all of the walnuts from the tree. Then, you will divide them equally amongst yourselves, and prepare them to be served amongst your household, and any surplus served to those who till the land you own." "This is to be done every season the tree bears fruit."

The banns looked as though the Void itself had opened before them. "But-but- _Your Majesty_ , I beg you reconsider!" said the second man . Alistair looked at him blankly.

"No. It is as I have decreed," said Alistair, and with a hand wave, court had ended for the day. The men slunk off, looking dejected. 

As Alistair rose from the throne room and headed upstairs to his private offices, Teagan followed him.

"Alistair, that solution...how did you come upon it?"

"It's simple, Teagan. They'll either do it and become too worn out to care about who it belongs to, or they'll chop the damned tree down. Either way, I'm sure I'll never hear about it again." Alistair said nonchalantly. 

"Brilliant, Sire," Teagan said, grinning. Then there was only the sound of the men's footsteps as they ascended the stairs and entered Alistair's office. Alistair sat behind the desk, reviewing bills to be approved. Teagan sat in a chair not far away, reviewing mail. The two often worked together in easy silence, having grown closer over the years.

"Ah, here's a letter from His Highness," said Teagan.

"Does Alexander bring any news?" asked Alistair.

"As always, he enjoyed his time at Castle Cousland, Fergus sends his regards...all's well," Teagan said, smiling fondly.

"I can't wait to see him," the King added, softly. 

"I'm sure he can't wait to see you, as well, Sire," said Teagan.

"Teagan," Alistair said sharply, "I've already told you to call me Alistair. Kowtowing to me, as though you were new at court." 

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Teagan. 

Alistair whipped his head around to glare at Teagan, who grinned at him in return. Alistair chuckled; it wasn't often that the two had a chance to joke with each other. It was nice to have a friend in Teagan; Alistair had so few he could keep around regularly now. His eyes drifted up to the portrait of Elizabeth Cousland he'd kept in his office-no. He would not go there, not in the presence of others. He willed himself to look back at the desk and continue reviewing this new bill. Alistair had just finished making an amendment when he heard Teagan humming thoughtfully across the room.

"Something on your mind?" asked Alistair.

"I was only thinking of His Highness."

"What about Alexander?"

"He is twenty now...yet he hasn't taken a wife..." Teagan trailed off, not wanting to bring up the old discussion, but as the years had gone by, the issue had become more and more pressing.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. "He is still a young man. I don't see a need to press the issue with him." "And," he continued, "I am still fit to rule-unless you think otherwise?"

"Not at all," replied Teagan, with all the ease of a sincere man. "Perhaps he is simply taking after his parents."

"No, Alistair said in a measured and thoughtful tone, "he's not taking after both parents, just me."

"Of course," Teagan said quietly, bowing his head, his eyes trained on the floor near Alistair before returning to the mail.

"And what of your wife and children?" Alistair asked Teagan, attempting to deflect.

Teagan smiled; Alistair grinned at having broken the tension in the room. "As always, Kaitlyn is doing a splendid job as Arlessa. Everyone is in good health, and the children write me often," said Teagan, his eyes wistful. 

"Wouldn't you like to see them? Perhaps you could head back to Redcliffe? I could always take another advisor on..." said Alistair, feeling guilty.

"We both know that I wear too many hats at court," Teagan said wearily. "And we both know we can't always get what we want." 

"Don't I know it," Alistair said, his eyes once again trained on Elizabeth's portrait. Silence slowly enveloped the room again, but this time, Teagan recognized it was better to leave it be. 

"I shall leave you be, Your Majesty," said Teagan softly, and with that, he slipped out of the room. Alistair raised a hand in acknowledgement, too distracted to be irritated by the formality.

With the soft click of the door, Alistair found himself alone with his thoughts and Elizabeth's portrait, which he could finally stare at unabashed. She was beautiful, in a white silk skirt with matching undersleeves, embroidered in gold thread. Over it she wore a gown in blue velvet, its sleeves trimmed with rich dark fur. She sat with perfect posture, the sumptuous fabrics spilling over her chair, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Her voluminous blonde hair was curled and  flowed graciously, pooling in her collarbones. In the background, her longsword rested against a mahogany table. It was one of her best portraits, and Alistair was forced to admit that though Elizabeth had always looked beautiful, even on the battlefield, it was clear that she was a noblewoman. All her talk of being too coarse and inelegant was pure nonsense; it was obvious that she was born and bred for court politics. 

"Lilibet," Alistair murmured, twisting the wedding ring around on his finger higher and higher. He'd nearly twisted it off when there came a knock at the door. Jamming the ring down onto his finger, he went to answer.

"Alexander! You're home!" Alistair gasped, throwing his arms around his son.

"Father, really, it wasn't that long," said Alexander. "Although I hope the ladies at court haven't found themselves all married." At that, he burst into a rich, wild laugh.

"No, my boy, the ladies are all single, but I'm afraid they were terribly disappointed," Alistair said with a chuckle. "When did you get back?"

"Half an hour ago," Alexander replied.

Alistair blinked, confused. "Why haven't I seen you until just now?" he asked. 

"Well...I'd been...looking for someone else, actually," Alexander began sheepishly. "And I'd heard you were busy, anyway," he said, more confidently. 

"Who were you looking for?"

"Nobody. Er...My handmaiden, Rosie-Rosamund. There were things I wanted to discuss."

"Of course there were," Alistair said, one eyebrow arched. 

"It doesn't matter now," said Alexander. "I hear she was on the list to be sent to the Denerim Chantry. Why someone would send my handmaid without my permission is beyond me, but there you go." "I'll go and get her first thing tomorrow."

"No, don't, it would be too indiscreet," said Alistair. "Besides-"

"Alistair!" called Teagan. "You're needed in the throne room."

"Did someone forget how to wipe themselves?" Alistair said dryly. "Fine. Let's go." Turning to Alexander, he said, "Well, son, try not to dig into Ferelden's secrets while I'm gone." With a flourish, Alistair swept out of the room. 

This time, it was Alexander's turn to lock the door. Looking around the room, he walked over cautiously to Elizabeth Cousland's portrait.  _Indiscreet_ , Alistair said. Alexander was sure he was a great deal more discreet than his father. All Ferelden knew the King had carried on an affair with Cousland the entire time he'd been married to his mother, that the only way that affair had ended was when she'd died twenty years ago. 

Alexander knew that he was expected to follow suit: the reality of a loveless power marriage was closing in on him tighter every moment, and it was getting harder to outrun. Soon enough, he too would find himself saddled with a throne he did not want, with a wife he would not love... _Maker's breath_ , Alexander thought,  _I'm going to turn into my father_ , and suddenly he could no longer be in his father's office, with that blighted picture of Elizabeth Cousland; and he swept out of the office, shutting the door on the inevitable one more day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn this was hard as hell to write. Next chapter will be better.


	5. In the Doorway (Cullen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen goes through the Chantry's doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back to Cullen's POV.

Cullen awoke in bed; it took only a moment's hesitation to realize he was in Skyhold. Sun shone through the hole in the roof. Gold and crimson leaves fluttered through the dust motes, settling on the floor. Cullen lay in bed, letting the nip of the morning air wash over his skin. He considered letting his eyes slip closed just a moment longer, when he registered warmth that his side. Rolling over, he was met with a mass of dark curls. He had begun absentmindedly stroking them when all of a sudden there was movement, and Vashidira Lavellan's slate grey eyes were staring into his own. 

"Cullen," she said, and Cullen nearly died with joy.

"Vashi," he replied. "I'm so glad you're here."

She laughed, leaning over to kiss him, and he could smell the lingering scent of orange blossoms on her skin and in her hair. Cullen lifted himself to meet her lips, drowning in the sensation of her. Wrapping an arm around her, he pressed her to him and inhaled deeply.

"Come, now, did you really think I wouldn't come back?" Vashidira murmured. "I'm here, and I always will be."

Cullen chuckled, his grip on her never loosening. Still, he couldn't help but feel foolish for ever doubting her. "I know," he said softly, "but I couldn't help but to worry, Vashi. I love you."

"And I you," she replied. 

They lay there, entangled, and it was bliss. Cullen couldn't have wished for anything more: he was in her arms, and Vashidira was in his. There was only the sounds of their breathing, and the song of the lyrium in his veins, making him perfect and whole. Vaguely, he could make out the sounds of birds chirping, when suddenly he heard Vashidira call his name. Cullen looked away from her, back to the hole in the roof, and the sun suddenly grew brighter and brighter, and her voice more and more distant... 

Cullen awoke to see some lay sisters standing over him, and he realized he was still in Denerim, having fallen asleep on the stairs of the Chantry. It had all been a dream. The Lady Inquisitor was still dead, Thedas was still safe and he was still pathetic and alone.

"Are you alright?" asked one of the sisters, and it was so ridiculous and so like what the Inquisitor would've asked him that all Cullen could do was stare past the women into the sky as a tear rolled down his face.

"Come," said another sister, and Cullen obeyed as they guided him off the ground and walked him into the Chantry in total silence, the tears coming down his face now hot and fast. 

The only things worse than his nightmares were his dreams.

Once inside the Chantry, he'd had a long and tedious wait. Hours after admitting Cullen into the Chantry, it had become packed. He'd sat, barely attended to for some days until more help arrived, directly from the King's court, as he'd understood. It was then, and only then, that he'd been seen to beyond basic meals. One of the first matters to be done was to bathe him.

"You're one of the filthiest individuals I've ever seen," said the Revered Mother, and with that, Cullen found himself dragged outside and doused with cold water. It was a shock to the system at first, but under the high noon sun, Cullen quickly grew used to the feeling, even letting out a sigh.

"I think that's the first time I've heard any noise come out of you," came a voice. Cullen whirled around and found himself surprised twice. The first surprise was that he saw a young woman standing a few yards away.

The second surprise was that she was uncommonly pretty. The young woman was of average height, with brown eyes and large curls that shone dark blonde in the sun. She had full lips that stretched into a broad grin as she net his gaze. She looked as though she'd run through a meadow on the first warm day of spring; her cheeks were rosy and her skin was tanned. In all, Cullen thought she was quite beautiful-aside from that exceptionally Fereldan nose on her face. 

"I'm Rosamund," she said. "Yourself?"

Cullen covered himself, staring as the young lady stepped closer to him. In her arms were some linens and what seemed like a bar of soap.

"I've seen worse," she said. "Except those linens you wore. We've burnt those. Unless...you wanted those?"

Cullen frowned, because why would he want soiled linens? Maker, he hoped this Rosamund girl wasn't a damned fool.

"I know, I know, it's a silly question," said Rosamund, "but you'd be surprised what people get attached to." "Anyhow, here you are," she said, tossing him the fresh clothes and soap.

"Thank you," Cullen managed to say. Rosamund beamed at him.

"You're welcome..."she trailed off, expecting him to give his name. Cullen knew that to tell her the truth would bring a world of problems, so he stood there, silent and defensive. 

"I get it, one miracle at a time, eh?" Rosamund said, the enigmatic smile still on her face. "I'll see you later then, stranger," and with that, she turned and went back into the Chantry.

Cullen was alone again, his thoughts on the strange young woman who'd just appeared. It had been a long time since anyone had looked upon him with more than naked contempt, and it made him feel strange. Grabbing the soap, he began to lather himself vigorously, as though he could scrub away his feelings along with the filth on his body. When he was satisfied with his efforts, he tottered over to the well nearby, pumping more water into the bucket. 

_I should've done this earlier_ , Cullen thought.  _And perhaps I should've given her a name._ It was, after all, unfair to act coldly to someone without cause-hadn't the years of hard living taught him that? But then, it was those years that had made him react that way in the first place. 

_Vashidira would never have done that, even with her being Dalish-_ Cullen abruptly upturned the mostly full bucket on his head, then lay it down and began pumping again. He would  _not_ entertain those thoughts right now, and so he stared into the distance, as he continued pumping and pouring water over himself. 

When he had finished, after what seemed like an eternity, he slipped the new clothes on his damp body. They were simple, threadbare linen and shoddy wool-perfect for the summer. Which meant that Cullen would probably freeze come winter-if he stayed that long. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it, he decided, and with that, he headed back to the Chantry. 

When he came through the doors again, they were serving the evening meal, and Cullen meandered over to a spot in the back, near the corner. With all the men and women in the Chantry, there may not have been enough food to go around, he reasoned. But soon enough, a bowl of porridge and a small lump of hard bread was placed in front of him, and he looked up to see Rosamund standing over him.

"Enjoy," she said.

"Thank you," Cullen said. "Call me...Colin." 

Rosamond turned around at that. "Colin," she repeated, as though tasting the name. "Well," she said after a moment, "good evening, Colin."

Inwardly Cullen kicked himself. _You_ _blighted idiot. What kind of name is Colin?_ he thought, but the damage had already been done. Rosamond had flitted off to somewhere else, and so Cullen settled down to an old mediocre dinner and a new, equally mediocre identity, and tried to swallow both down with varying degrees of success.


	6. Everyone Left Behind (Rosamund)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosamund considers her new situation, loses hope, and gains some perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter than most so far.

_Maker,_ Rosamund thought,  _I've really pissed someone off, haven't I_? Because that was the best explanation: for these past few weeks at the Chantry, and for the rest of her life before that. 

It was a shame, too, because her life had been getting close to something she'd considered good: days working as the Prince's handmaid, and nights spent as the Prince's lover. And His Highness wasn't overly taxing in either respect, despite being...quite athletic. If anything, Alexander was rather generous-just as, it seemed, the Maker had been generous with him: he'd inherited the trademark Theirin good looks, just like all his forbears. He'd had the good natured personality that kept his father so popular all these years. He was talented and understanding and most obviously, he was  _Prince of Ferelden._

Which made the fact that Alexander hadn't come for her all the more disheartening. Rosamund choked back her bitterness with a shaky sigh. That was the life of a mistress-to have the King's ear first, yet always be second. Even the late Elizabeth Cousland couldn't escape such a fate-and she was a teryn's daughter, the Hero of Ferelden, the woman His Majesty most obviously preferred. And if the woman who molded Ferelden with her own two hands wasn't exempt from the rule, how could Rosamund hope for anything better? Rosamund had little to recommend her: she knew better than anyone that her best attributes were her wits and her beauty, and each day at Denerim's Chantry wore away at both. Dark circles had grown under her eyes. Her hair had become heavy and greasy, and her skin had lost its lustre from the living conditions and the time spent around the men,  _Maker, those poor men_.

Almost everyone Rosamund saw come to the Chantry for treatment were indeed male: some young, some old, all reduced to poverty, all in deteriorating health. The Chantry sisters had instructed those who'd arrived from the Palace that the addicts needed basic medical care prior to receiving the lyrium treatment, lest they die in the process of getting sober. For Rosamund, this meant handing out water, meals, and other supplies as needed. Said medical treatment was supposed to take at week, at most; it was now an ongoing project. Even with healers present, the men suffered and died-were, in fact, still suffering and dying en masse, at the rate of one a day. Yet the Chantry remained full, to Rosamund's disbelief. Eventually the Chantry sisters and palace staff separated into groups to deal with the numbers; Rosamund found herself attending to men who were assumed to be staying long term-a polite term for men who hadn't yet died, but weren't considered fully treated.

Weeks spent around the men, coupled with a lifetime of learning when to stay silent meant that Rosamund had managed to get at least some information about themselves and their lives. Some were deep in the throes of memory loss. Some chronically ran away. The ones who'd become violent were discreetly taken away and not seen again-Rosamund presumed they'd been silently put down or otherwise thrown in prison. Others she had befriended, only to see them go too mad and get shipped off soon after, sent to live out their last days in the Chantry's Kirkwall sanitarium. The overwhelming majority were transient, engaged in crimes including mercenary work and illegal prostitution. Some had always been unfortunate; some had been men of high repute. All of them were worse off for their addiction. Life at the Chantry was never restful, for at the end of a long day, Rosamund was kept up listening to the men's screams as they battled nightmares. 

But still, some men survived and thrived, and so this was technically worth it, this dream of all those nobles who would never see these men as faces with souls and stories, or realize the irony of sending men forsaken by the Maker to the Chantry.

 _Or maybe they do? The upper class has such a strange sense of humor_ , Rosamund thought, unable to quell the bitterness that grew inside her with each passing day. One warm evening in mid Justinian, Rosamund slipped outside the Chantry, finally having had enough.

"Sodding fools!" she cried out in frustration. "Would they were all dead, and me along with them!" She carried on, raving against the men who came for treatment, the nobility who'd never see the reality of the Lyrium Initiative, against the Maker for having given her such a tiresome life. When she was finished, Rosamund knelt on the stone ground and inhaled deeply. Looking up, she could see twilight on the horizon. The treetops swayed gently with a light breeze, and where flowers grew, Rosamund could occasionally smell a rose or a daisy. In the background was the always present aroma of burnt oak, for the funeral pyres seemed to burn constantly now. Denerim had begun to quiet somewhat, as the Marketplace died down and the whorehouses and taverns began to really come to life. Sure enough, Rosamund could hear a faint cheer from a tavern around the corner. 

In the midst of her tirade, Rosamund failed to notice footsteps behind her. But now, with her blood not pumping in her ears, she noticed a shuffling sound amidst the ambient noise of the evening. Whirling around, she turned to face Colin, who was leaning against the wall of the Chantry. Even in the growing darkness, she could see how much he'd changed from their first meeting back in late Bloomingstide. 

He was one of the men who was steadily on the way to thriving, which was surprising given how uncertain things were for him the first two weeks she'd seen him. Delirious and shaking from high fevers, barely able to keep a meal down, running a severe nosebleed every day. And the violent screaming at night chilled Rosamund to the bone. Especially since he otherwise only spoke when necessary, besides "Yes, thank you," or "No, thank you."

Lately, though, he'd been getting stronger, walking around on his own without hobbling, keeping food down. His nosebleeds had stopped being so severe and so frequent. Colin had begun talking more, though he was still very quiet-and still very mysterious. If he continued with his recovery, he might become a very successful man-and a very handsome one, too, Rosamund thought. As Colin stood against the wall surveying her silently, she wondered who he used to be-and why he was here looking at her now. 

"Can I help you?" Rosamund asked when the silence became too much.

"No, thank you." Colin sounded impassive as ever.

"Did you want to talk?" Rosamund asked, suspecting he would decline, as he always did.

"No..." he started to say, before pausing and adding, "Did you? Want to talk?" 

Rosamund was momentarily flustered, shocked that the idea of conversation hadn't driven him away. "I suppose so," she said after a beat, realizing the offer might never come again. 

Colin nodded, then straightened himself out and walked toward her. Once he was beside her, he turned to face her, still silent. Rosamund realized he was waiting for her to talk. 

"You've been making a big improvement," she said awkwardly.

"Thank you," said Colin. "But I didn't do it alone."

Rosamund nodded. "How are you liking things here?"

"I daresay I like my present situation more than you like yours," Colin said casually.

"You heard me?" she asked. Colin nodded. "How much did you hear?" she added, more timidly.

"Enough," said Colin, still casual. Rosamund colored and shifted awkwardly, feeling ashamed at having been caught. Colin simply stood still, hands clasped behind his back, looking out into the darkening sky. For a man who could be put down by headaches most days of the week, he had remarkable dignity in that moment.

"What I said, I didn't mean it..." The words died in her throat when Colin faced her again, his intense gaze making her shift uncomfortably. Rosamund tried in vain to continue her train of thought before finally succumbing to the awkward silence that settled over them for the second time that evening.

"Take care you don't always speak in anger. You can't take your words back," said Colin. Despite his serene tone, Rosamond could see a flash of sorrow behind his eyes for a moment. It reminded her that when they went to sleep in a few hours she'd  hear his sharp screams as he struggled violently against formless terrors. Rosamond breathed in the smell of pine, willing herself not to let Colin's moment of vulnerability make her weak as well.

"I didn't expect that anyone would hear me," she blurted out defensively, and wasn't that the exact thing Colin warned her against not a second ago? But the older man seemed to consider her words briefly.

"His Majesty must be far cleverer than he lets on if you came from the palace believing that," Colin replied coolly. It took Rosamund a second to realize he'd just called her stupid, which only made her feel stupider. 

"Don't call me a fool," Rosamund said sharply.

"I didn't; I said His Majesty was clever," Colin replied smoothly. Rosamund bit down her response, opting instead to change topics. 

"Well...that's true. But about what I said earlier, I feel I should explain myself." Rosamund took Colin's continued silence as permission to continue.

"It's just been...a difficult adjustment. Seeing all this death, knowing that all those men's lives were cut short...it feels like false hopes to me," said Rosamund. 

Colin hummed thoughtfully, mulling over his words before answering.

"No," he finally said.

"Pardon?" Rosamund said, bewildered.

"You imply that the treatment is killing the men-myself included. But that's not so. We stopped living the day we took lyrium, the day we heard its song in our blood." "Most of those men who died had no chance of making it through." Colin's expression was grave. 

"Surely they couldn't have known that," said Rosamund.

"Perhaps not," said Colin. "But as a general rule, advanced incontinence or memory loss is a bad sign."

Rosamund paused to make a mental note before continuing, "Even if they did, why come here just to die?"

"They came here to die sober. We all did." Despite his quiet tone, the passion in Colin's voice was evident. Rosamund began to speak, but stopped, realizing there was nothing adequate she could say.

"The opportunity to go to the Maker's side freed of this addiction is worth any effort. If this program helps, there's no false hope in that," Colin said evenly. With that, the sounds of the night surged over the pair once again.

Rosamund watched the sky darken to an inky black as she absorbed everything that just happened. She hadn't ever expected to speak to the old man, much less for him to willingly impart his wisdom to her. Sinking further into her thoughts, Rosamund's reverie was broken by a light touch on her forearm.

"The stars are beautiful," Colin said. "But the outdoors is not a good place to sleep. Shall we head back to the Chantry?" he added with a slight smile, offering his arm. Rosamund locked elbows with him, and they walked the short distance back to the Chantry in silence. Inside, she felt Colin brush past her as he made his way over to his usual space to sleep. Before she knew it, she had grabbed his sleeve, and he turned back to her, his gaze sharp even in the dim lighting.

"Erm..." Rosamund realized she'd grabbed onto the older man's sleeve so boldly, and she blushed, her confidence having died away. Colin merely arched an eyebrow.

"Thank you,"she finally managed to say.

Colin's expression softened as he gently pried his sleeve from her fingers. "Goodnight, Rosamund," he said gently before slipping out of sight.

As usual, however, it was not a good night for Rosamund; the difference tonight being that she was kept up wondering about her mysterious new charge, rather than by just his screams.


	7. Supplication (Josephine and Leliana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine's wish is granted, Leliana's plans are put on hold, and both women find their world changed.

Josephine had spent days trying to solve a problem that was both within and beyond her expertise: appeasing some very wealthy nobles with considerable military experience. Too much emphasis on their combat skill risked offending their sensibilities; too little emphasis risked suggesting their incompetence. The nobles couldn't be given an appropriate military rank, for it would offend far too many families-and besides, Rylen already held the office of Commander. Which left Josephine wondering for the umpteenth time, _W_ _hat would the Lady Inquisitor do?_

And so, once again, Josephine reached for the little leatherbound journal she always kept with her and browsed through the pages. This time, though, the late Inquisitor's words proved less helpful than usual, much to the Ambassador's chagrin. Josephine thumbed the pages for an hour before realizing that the solution might lie in the Inquisitor's communications rather than her musings. With that, Josephine summoned two assistants.

"Listen," said Josephine, "I'll need you to go into the archives, and bring me every piece of correspondence the Inquisitor had with the Commander."

"All of it, Ambassador?" the men asked, the barest trace of exasperation in their voices.

"Yes. I want every single scrap of paper you can find, and I want it _now_ ," said Josephine sternly. With a wave of her hand, the pair went off, and Josephine sat back on her desk. By sundown, Josephine had three boxes full of correspondence between the late Inquisitor and the former Commander. She let out a sigh and reached for a box; this would take a long time. 

To Josephine's delight, she only needed to search for about half an hour before she got her answer: Have the nobles send some older soldiers to Skyhold in a mentorship role, and get some support from the Inquisition-where appropriate, of course. Her solution enacted the next day, Josephine went about her duties, livelier than usual. She sent out a letter confirming her visit to Ferelden in two weeks, she continued to garner financial support for the Inquisition, and she had begun setting up the Skyhold's high summer festival. 

Josephine had not, however, put away the Inquisitor's correspondence, having found herself enthralled with all of it-or rather, with most of it. Reading the intimate details of Vashidira Lavellan's relationship with Cullen in their own words felt nearly like a transgression; later, Josephine would admit to herself that that precise feeling was what spurred her on. In the present moment, however, the Ambassador simply waited until the day had ended, then shut herself up in her office and pored through the letters, titlilated. She'd been in there for some minutes when there came a quiet knock at the door. 

"Come in," said Josephine, smoothly hiding her irritation at being disturbed. When she saw it was only Leliana, however, her expression softened. The spymaster chose to linger in the doorway for a moment, a wry, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Someone seems to be enjoying their work," said Leliana. 

Josephine had the good graces to look slightly embarrassed. "It's...not quite work at this point," she admitted.

Leliana only grinned in response before stepping in and closing the door. A paper caught her eye, and she swiped it, fast as lightning. "What's this?" she asked, turning it over for Josephine's to see.

"I don't know. It was jumbled in with the archives. It must have been among the Inquisitor's possessions," said Josephine. Stretching out an arm, she took the paper from Leliana.

"What would this be doing here, anyway?" asked the Ambassador, a perplexed look on her face. "This isn't Vashi's handwriting. Nor it is Cullen's."

Leliana reached to take the paper back, examining it more closely now. "This is a cipher," she said. "As I recall, neither the Inquisitor nor the Commander were adept at writing or deciphering those." Now the sypmaster sat at Josephine's desk as a contemplative silence descended over the women. Josephine was the first to break it.

"Someone planted it there," she said in hushed tones, "in the hopes that we'd see it." Both women shifted their gazes to the paper.

"They must have been waiting a long time; this paper looks as old as all the others here." Though Leliana spoke slowly and quietly, her thoughts were racing, the sound of her heartbeat like thunder in her ears. A rush of adrenaline surged through her, and she rose suddenly, the old cipher still in her hand. 

"I'll investigate this immediately," she said, her expression and tone hardening with resolve. "In the meantime, Josie, I'll need you to act naturally-and to send all those archived letters to my office, posthaste."

"Of course," said Josephine, equally as distracted. With that, the two women parted ways for the evening, full of nervous energy.

At dawn the next day, Leliana was awakened by a knock at her office door. Opening it, she was surprised to see the Ambassador standing before her, looking slightly disheveled and with her arms full of crates. 

"I worked on these all night," Josephine said wearily. "I've delivered them personally. They're arranged in chronological order." With that, Josephine nearly shoved the crates into Leliana's arms. 

"I'll be in my quarters if you need me," Josephine said, adding a delicate, strategic yawn. Leliana took the hint graciously. 

"Get some rest," Leliana said gently. "We'll have the war table meeting in the afternoon instead." 

With a tired smile, Josephine nodded and headed off. Looking at the crates only reminded Leliana of the cipher, and all the possibilities it entailed. With that, she shook off the last vestiges of sleep, and got to work. 

The combination of Leliana's regular duties, training her replacement ahead of her re-appointment as Left Hand of the Divine, and the mounting chaos of the upcoming summer festival meant that the deciphering the old slip of paper in the Inquisitor's archives took closer to two weeks instead of only a few days, and each minute of the wait felt as though it was on baited breath. 

The day Leliana uncovered the cipher had begun early, in preparation for Josephine's departure for Ferelden later that afternoon. She'd sat in the rookery, having put some papers aside in favor of concentrating fully on the paper in front of her. With all her attention focused fully on the old cipher, Leliana could see that it was not quite as complex as it had seemed at first. Having finally determined it's key, she quickly went to work, and in about two hours, she had deciphered it fully.

She paused, looking over it once, twice, three times.  _No,_ she thought,  _it couldn't be true._  And so Leliana looked over the deciphered message four, five, six more times. Having finally come to grips with the words that sat before her, Leliana sat in the rookery, nothing but the chirping of the birds to cut through her own shocked silence. 

Swiftly, she pocketed the note, and wrote down a short message for Josephine. This had gone from a peculiar old mystery to a full blown emergency.

 

Josephine was at her desk, listening to a old Orlesian noble in the throes of gossiping at legnth about his compatriots. He was just beginning to regale her with a rumor about two noblemen, a pot of chocolate and a peacock, when suddenly a messenger came through the door. 

"So sorry to interrupt, Ambassador, but Sister Nightingale insisted you receive this immediately." Josephine accepted the message gracefully. It was a tiny slip of paper, nearly innocuous in size-which was the Ambassador's first clue that something urgent had happened. Delicately, Josephine opened the sheet of paper. It read:

_Meet me on the battlements ASAP. Initiate Maneuver 7 if necessary. Burn after reading._

_N_

Josephine's eyes widened in alarm. Maneuver 7 had only been used once in the past-and it had nearly got Skyhold burned to the ground. It required precision and stealth. It was reserved only in the most urgent circumstances-not even the Inquisitor's death had warranted Maneuver 7. Josephine took a deep breath to steady herself. 

Then she promply broke out in an emotional, frantic tirade entirely in Antivan, complete with budding tears. The old noble quickly and nervously excused himself. Josephine continued her melodramatic babbling all the way to the battlements. Once there, she met up with Leliana, tears still in her eyes. The spymaster led them on a roundabout walk back to the rookery, one arm around Josephine's shoulder as though to console her. When they'd finally made it back to the rookery, Josephine had finally calmed down. Leliana silently reached into the folds of her clothes and withdrew the decoded letter. Handing it to Josephine, who took the letter with a steady hand and began to read. 

_Inquisitor Lavellan is pregnant. Approximately seven months. Cites Commander Cullen as the child's father. Commander remains unaware at Lavellan's request. Lavellan seems unaware of progression of pregnancy. Plans have been made for child in worst case scenario. At time of writing, child-girl-is healthy and relocated._

Josephine felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. Her mouth was wide open; when she became aware of it, she pressed her lips tightly together, not trusting herself to speak. She looked to Leliana; the spymaster stared at her with an equally tense expression. Time seemed to slow to a crawl amid the thick, suffocating silence in the room. It seemed as though an eternity passed before either woman spoke, but Josephine broke the silence first, having quickly regained her composure. 

"Leliana, I have several questions regarding the authenticity of this cipher," Josephine stated in a calm, even tone. Unfortunately, she also spoke entirely in Antivan, and so Leliana couldn't quite respond.

"I'm afraid I'm not so good with the Antivan language, Josie," Leliana said calmly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Josephine felt her face grow hot, and she repeated her statement again, in Common.

"The cipher is unusual, but there's nothing to suggest that it's a fraud...and that's what worries me," Leliana said. "The paper seems as old as all the other letters in the Inquisitor's archive, meaning that this was written when she was still alive-at least, most of it."

"What do you mean, part of it?" The Ambassador's brow furrowed.

Leliana drew out the original cipher. "Look," she said. "See here? All of the ink is faded. But this," she said, pointing to the last few lines, "is slightly fresher."

"And it doesn't appear to be in the same handwriting," Josephine added, her voice rising with her curiosity. 

"Right you are. Which means there were at least two people, not counting the Inquisitor, who knew about this," said Leliana gravely.

"And apparently none of them were the Commander," Josephine said, shaking her head. Both women looked doleful at the thought.

"But," said Josephine, "how can we verify that any of this is true?"

"Because the Inquisitor verified it herself," said Leliana. "In this letter." She walked over to the archives, and pulled out a letter addressed to Cullen, it's seal newly broken.

Josephine sucked in a breath; it was Vashidira Lavellan's last letter to Cullen, written just before she went to her final battle with Corypheus. It was the one piece of mail nobody had ever opened-not even Cullen, who'd been too distraught to even touch it some days. And now, just over twenty years after it was written, Josephine was about to open the letter and apparently get confirmation of the biggest scandal in the Inquisition's history. With shaking hands, she grasped a corner of the letter and merely stared for a second. It's outside was dull and yellowed, as were all the other papers. In several spots, it had been creased where Cullen had grasped it, the seal's insignia worn down where Cullen had no doubt thumbed it over and over in the couple of years he'd held onto it. Taking a deep breath, Josephine flipped open the letter and began to read. 

_Cullen,_

_If you're reading this letter, then I'm afraid I've come back on my shield, and not with it, as the old saying goes. I've thought so long on how to say this, and it's only become harder the longer I get to know you...the more I love you. I am so sorry, ma'vhenan. I ~~want~~ I need you to know that I tried my very hardest to come back to you, my love. I need you to know that this wasn't your fault, that you needn't be angry at yourself or anyone else. Perhaps this was simply fate; maybe even your Maker's will? Whatever the reasons, know that I want you to live and thrive, Cullen-that is, after all, what I sacrificed for. _

_Even now, in this last letter, my words are still clumsy and hard. I wish I could've learned to write pretty, like our Ambassador-_

Josephine felt hot tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She closed her eyes and steadied herself before finishing.

_-but alas! Such things are not to be. I feel I must tell you now of this one last thing, Cullen. In a way, I only feel as though this would be needless suffering, but you have been nothing but honest with me, and I feel I should return the favor._

_I am-was, if you're reading this-with child. I'd only just found out recently-though, as you know, thoughts of starting a family had long been on my mind. I'd thought I couldn't have children, and now, to find this out so late, too late, perhaps...cruel irony. Forgive me, Cullen, for leaving you with all these thoughts of what could have been. Forgive me for leaving you._

_I don't want to end this letter; I didn't want to write this letter; I don't want you to read this letter. I am sorry that I haven't written so long or so lovely a letter as you deserve. I am sorry. I must go now._

_Forever yours,_

_Vashidira_

For years, Josephine couldn't help but to wonder about why Cullen had never opened the letter. But now, even after decades, the Inquisitor's words hit Josephine in the chest like a rock, and she knew, and was suddenly glad Cullen had never opened it. _How much worse things might've been for him-for all of us!_ Josephine thought. The Ambassador looked over to Leliana, silent, and wondered what the spymaster felt while she was expertly breaking the old seal, reading the words. The ink was still fresh, the words never having seen the light. 

"I-" Josephine's words were cut off by a knock at the door of the rookery.

"Ambassador, your carriage is ready," came a voice outside. 

"Well, Josie, it seems you must be getting on to Ferelden now. Best not be late," Leliana said evenly. 

"But no! There are things we must discuss-and the plans-and the questions-" Josephine stuttered, her words feeling painfully inadequate.

"And we will, Josie. After you return from your trip." Leliana said. She walked closer to Josephine now, her words low enough so that only the Ambassador could hear.

"Remember to act natural. And tell nobody, not a soul, until we meet again." Leliana's expression was as hard as her tone. Josephine had recovered enough sense to be offended. 

"Of course not," she said indignantly. Josephine stood straighter, straightening her skirts, adjusting her hair. "How does my face look?" she asked.

"Your makeup is fine. It's your expression that needs work," Leliana said evenly.

"I see," said Josephine, and she relaxed herself enough so that her face was calm once more. 

"Better," said Leliana.

Josephine nodded. "Until we meet again, Leliana."

"I look forward to it," the spymaster replied, and with that, Josephine swept through the doors, escorted by the guards, and slipped daintily into the carriage bound for the Denerim Palace, the picture of grace and good breeding, as always. It was only Leliana who could see how tried Josephine looked about the eyes. 

When the carriage finally disappeared through Skyhold's gates and down the causeway, Leliana let out a breath. Her face dropped; she could feel the stillness seeping into her bones, the way a child fell asleep after a crying fit, and Leliana fought it off vehemently.  _Not yet_ , she thought. She sat at her desk and penned a short letter to Cassandra. She received reports from her scouts and contemplated them in anticipation of the next war table meeting. Then she rose, walking briskly to Skyhold's Chantry. Leliana let relief wash over her at finding it empty. She walked over to the altar and crouched, lighting candles. One for the Inquisitor, certainly dead; one for Cullen, who was almost certainly by her side in the Fade; and one for their child, a daughter lost somewhere in Thedas. 

Then Leliana let the stillness wash over her, and she prayed to Andraste, and continued praying on her knees even as the light faded and the stars began to shine in the midsummer night.


	8. Good Intentions (Cassandra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra has some explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that this isn't necessarily following the DLC's...but you probably knew that by now.

The Divine swore. But that came towards the end.

First, Divine Victoria's day started early, as it always did, leading morning prayers, reviewing Chantry doctrine, and tracking the progress of the Lyrium Initiative. The Orlesian Chantries seemed at first to be faring better than those in Ferelden, partly because the Initiative hadn't been as wildly popular-or as badly needed. Still, as more and more people began to come for treatment, it was becoming clear that Chantries in Orlais were just as ill-prepared and would become overwhelmed by fall. Chantries in the Free Marches, it seemed, were doing even worse than those in Ferelden. In Kirkwall, or New Starkhaven, as it was now known, people were simply camped outside the Chantry for nearly a mile in every direction; the sisters had taken to weaving makeshift tents for all the transients.

It was with this information in mind that Cassandra donned her robes and decided to start personally touring Chantries in Orlais, to boost morale. She went (escorted now, as she always was, to her irritation) with the intention to visit some of those who were helping, as well as those undergoing treatment and get a firsthand look at what was happening. 

The outing was what Cassandra would call "a mixed blessing," when she was feeling particularly generous. She could barely get inside any of the Chantries. In the streets, people mobbed each other mercilessly to get close to her once they realized the Divine was out in public.

"Bless us, it is the Divine!" they cried. "Guide us, Your Perfection!" they begged. 

Cassandra felt her face flush; the admiration of the public was something she remained unused to, even after so many years. But she was a crusader for the Maker, and if this was yet another moment to fight for a good cause, she would do it. With that, Cassandra began to address the clamoring crowd. She spoke sincerely, assuring them all that they were children of the Maker, including the downtrodden and the lyrium addicted. With that, Cassandra then pointed to a Chantry, and segued into a dialogue about the Lyrium Initiative, answering questions and talking with the public of the hardships of the Chantries, and the good the Initiative was doing.

"How are we supposed to help?" came a voice.

Through prayer, through giving alms, through their good works: that was how they would help, Cassandra said. 

"What about those pathetic men seeking treatment?" came another voice. There was an uprising of agreement, and Cassandra paused.

 _The men were living pathetic lives, but they themselves weren't pathetic, were they?_ Cassandra asked herself.  _No, surely not_ , Cassandra thought. _And hadn't everyone suffered at some point in time?_  Of that much, she was certain. She said as much to the crowd, and their talking seemed to quiet down to a loud murmur. With the crowd somewhat assuaged, and herself somewhat reassured, Cassandra continued with renewed conviction. As she talked to them of the Maker and his plans for them-as well as her agenda as Divine-her voice became more steady, her tone more valiant. When she had finished speaking, the crowd was awed by her passion, and there was a short pause before they burst out in applause. Having somewhat salvaged the day, and the public, Cassandra led the crowd in prayer, performed benediction, then headed back to the Grand Cathedral to plan for a Chantry visit at a later date.

In the public's eye, Divine Victoria was practically a living deity, given her accomplishments. She'd saved the previous Divine nearly single-handedly. She'd founded the Inquisition. She'd fought alongside-and befriended-the late Inquisitor. She'd gone down to Kirkwall and recruited the legendary Commmander Cullen. The Most Holy was venerable, awesome in her might and inspiring in her faith. 

And yet even the Divine's heart, full of faith as it was, still held room for secrets. 

Midsummer was approaching in Orlais; the air hung thick and heavy between the high summer sun and the steaming earth, and the people languished. Heat seeped into their very beings, and they grew hot-tempered and weary, seeking out either violence or shade in turns. In the Grand Cathedral, the Most Holy sought refuge in her chambers. Cooling runes and wide windows kept the air tolerable and somewhat fresh. The Divine rested on a sofa, reading her mail, a copy of the Chant of Light beside her. There were updates on the efforts in Rivain (unsuccessful, as always), letters from powerful nobles (which she decided to review more carefully with Vivienne later), and a letter from Leliana. The Divine eagerly picked it up, expecting to find confirmation of when Leliana would arrive in Orlais. What she found was something altogether different. 

 _Most Holy,_  the letter began,

_I hope all is well with you. Unfortunately, my arrival in Orlais and my appointment as Left Hand must be postponed. An unexpected discovery requires that I launch an investigation into the late Inquisitor Vashidira Lavellan's last few months, with specific emphasis on the day of her death. As you were one of the party members that accompanied her to the Battle of Haven, I am afraid I must eventually ask-with the utmost respect-that you send testimony regarding what happened during and after the battle. I apologize for the inconvenience this must be causing you. May the Maker guide our steps as always._

_Warmest regards,_

_Leliana_

Cassandra's hands shook as she held the letter. She could feel sweat trickling between her shoulders and down her back, a perspiration that had nothing to do with the summer heat. 

"Shit!" she cried out, clapping a hand over her mouth. She looked over the letter again. _An investigation into the day of the Inquisitor's death. Holy Maker._

"Holy shit," she said, her voice a frantic, harsh whisper. Cold dread formed in the pit of Cassandra's stomach, and she felt the need to move, to do something, _anything_  besides sitting there, trapped with that letter. With shallow breaths, she steadied herself, then went down to the garden. Walking over resolutely to a fig tree, Cassandra punched it several times, as hard as she could. When she was finished, she braced herself against the trunk, gulping in air as leaves rained down around her. When her breathing her had finally become even again, she stood up straight, and headed straight into the Chantry to pray. Kneeling before the altar, she lit a candle for the Inquisitor. For a moment she was tempted nearly to light one for herself, quavering as she was. But she fought back the urge and began to recite the Chant of Light, its words a balm to her soul. Clasping clammy hands together, Cassandra called upon the Maker.

 _Maker, forgive me for my sin of omission_ , she said in earnest. _I never meant to cause trouble._ Though the Divine was unaware that the Inquisitor had a daughter that wandered Thedas, Leliana's letter had filled Cassandra with the need to confess a secret of her own, black and heavy with the passage of time. So the Divine knelt on the stone floor, in supplication to the Maker, to Andraste, to Vashidira Lavellan.

 _The Inquisitor was an exceptional woman...and I only meant to give her what she deserved-what was best_ , Cassandra thought. But the sentiment was cold now, like the Inquisitor's ashes after so many years. Her bottom lip trembled. Guilt swam up to the surface of Cassandra's soul, like an ugly fish rising from a pond, stirring up algae as it went. What she'd done all those years ago, she'd done with good intentions. But wasn't that always how good people destroyed the world? And really, hadn't she done exactly that? She had been lying to herself-and it was time to tell the truth. Her mind made up, Cassandra rose and left the chapel, stepping out into the hot summer evening. When Leliana called upon her for her testimony, Cassandra would give it. As she made her way back to her chambers, she mused on what would happen after Thedas found out their Divine had been complicit in the murder of Inquisitor Vashidira Lavellan. 

First, though, she would need to reach out to Varric.


	9. Ferelden (Josephine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine arrives in Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild story arc appeared!
> 
> This is a little break/interlude in our character rotation; but never fear, we'll still hear from everyone, rest assured. Next chapter will be regularly scheduled Alistair.
> 
> Also, another nice long chapter, yay!

Though the trip into Ferelden was short, its cities were spread far apart, so that Josephine's carriage didn't pull through Denerim's city gates until after sundown. For the most part, however, Josephine hardly noticed, preoccupied as she was by the scandalous cipher sitting in Leliana's rookery.

 _The Inquisitor had a child by Cullen_. The very idea that such a thing had occurred so discreetly that not even Cullen himself had been aware was driving the Ambassador to distraction. Then, of course, there was the fact that said child-a daughter-had survived the Battle of Haven and was taken elsewhere. But where? What country? A Chantry? Was she living with another family? Had she started one of her own?

Had the girl even lived that long? Not all children survived to adulthood-especially ones born before they were due. 

But supposing she did survive, she'd be...nearly twenty-one now, Josephine realized. _Sweet Andraste_ , she thought. What would she look like? Was she darker, like Lavellan? Or was she blonde, like Cullen? Did she have her mother's large, grey eyes? What was her name? Perhaps- _  
_

"Hello? Hello?"

Josephine was startled out of her thoughts by a voice. Looking around, she could see even in the darkness that she'd reached the palace gates. Peering in the window of her carriage was a man, his face obscured. 

"Hello?" Josephine called to him.

"Ah. Are you alright? You seemed not to hear me," said the man, whose voice Josephine now recognized as Lord Chancellor Teagan's. "Are you ready to come in? Your bags are being taken care of now."

"Yes, thank you," said Josephine, having centered herself. With that, the carriage door opened, and she took the Lord Chancellor's proffered hand, stepping down.

"My apologies for my absentmindedness just now," said Josephine as she curtsied.

"It's quite alright, Ambassador," said Teagan. "Although it is late, our negotiations will start tomorrow morning as scheduled."

"Of course, Lord Chancellor," said Josephine. 

The pair made small talk as they walked the grounds to the palace's entrance. Years of correspondence had put the pair on somewhat familiar terms. Despite Teagan's-and indeed, King Alistair's-desire to see the Inquisition dissolved, Josephine maintained cordial relations with him. Soon, they reached the palace doors; when they opened, a seneschal appeared as if by magic. 

"Milady," said the dignified old man, "allow me to show you to your rooms."

Josephine nodded politely, then turned to Teagan. 

"I look forward to our meeting in the morning, Chancellor."

"As do I, Ambassador. Good evening." With a light bow, Teagan was gone. 

"Dinner has already ended, milady, but supper shall be brought up to you shortly," said the seneschal as they ascended the stairs to Josephine's room. 

"Ah, thank you," she replied, for now that her mind was off the scandal back at Skyhold, Josephine was pretty hungry.

"Would you also like a bath drawn, Ambassador?"

"Not a bath per se, but a basin to freshen up would be nice-in fact, I'd rather have a bath tomorrow, thank you."

"Of course, Ambassador. If you need assistance, call for me or my staff. And enjoy your time in Ferelden." With that, the old seneschal opened the doors to Josephine's room, then withdrew. 

Now alone, Josephine took in the luxurious surroundings. A fur carpet lay at the foot of a large bed, itself covered in soft wool and tightly woven linens in accordance with the summer weather. Unbeknownst to her, the rug was covering a rune carved to heat the stone floor. Velvet drapes and gossamer curtains covered a pair of lovely Orlesian style doors that opened up to reveal a balcony. 

Josephine didn't often get to go to Ferelden-and to be honest, she didnt mind much; she preferred Orlais anyway. So it was always a bit of a surprise to her to see just how decadent Ferelden could be. She went over to the wardrobe-a beautiful mahogany piece-and pulled out her nightgown. She had nearly unfastened her dress, when there came a knock at the door. 

"Come in," said Josephine, who moved behind a changing screen. Two elven servants darted in. 

"Your basin, madam," said one.

The other laid down a platter of food. "Your dinner, madam."

Before Josephine could even say thank you, the pair had left, as quickly as they'd come. Josephine stepped out, now in her gown, and examined the food: a roast poussin, herbed mashed potatoes, and several vegetables, all still steaming. To the side was a platter of fruits, and a large slice of cake. Taking a few bites, Josephine was pleasantly surprised to find dinner was delicious-she'd expected to suffer through a week of woefully inadequate meals. 

Having finished dinner, Josephine sat for a while, trying to gather her thoughts in preparation for her upcoming week. But her mind wandered in every direction, her attention scattering like dust motes in the wind. She made a valiant effort to think of any of the members of the Bannorn; yet her thoughts turned each time to the Fereldan man she'd known so many years ago in the Inquisition, one she'd called Commander, and friend.   


And her long-dead friend might still have a living piece of himself roaming Thedas...which meant that a piece of the Inquisitor was roaming around Thedas as well, and Josephine was one of the only two confirmed people who knew, and-

Josephine stopped herself; she knew that if she continued to indulge those thoughts she'd be up all night, so she rang for a servant and had a sleeping draught brought to her. Uncorking the vial, the Ambassador downed its contents, and almost immediately settled into a dreamless sleep. 

 

She awoke shortly after dawn to the gentle sloshing of water. Across the room, two strong men were filling a bathtub. Through the gossamer curtains over her bed, she could hear their quiet grunts and footsteps as they worked. As Josephine slowly started to wake, she let her eyes adjust to the pale light streaming in through the windows, slowly getting up to start the day.

"She's up," Josephine heard someone whisper, and as she parted the curtains over her bed and stepped onto the floor, she could see the two men bow deeply, then leave. Two young women took their place a moment later. Or rather, one young woman and a young teenage girl, who held a bar of soap and some other supplies. 

"Would ya like help washin' yer hair, milady?" asked the girl.

"Yes, thank you," said Josephine, who was too groggy to do it herself. She looked sleepily to the young woman, who merely bowed politely and set up the changing screen in front of the tub. Josephine slipped out of her nightgown, then placed it over the screen and stepped into the bathtub, sighing with pleasure at the feeling of the hot water. Swiftly, the screen and gown were moved by the woman, and the girl stepped forward, gently lathering Josephine's hair and scrubbing her scalp. The young girl had detangled her hair with ease; Josephine hadn't even noticed until the girl began running a comb smoothly through her hair.

"If you keep that up, I might fall asleep," Josephine said with a light laugh.

"My apologies, madam. D'ya need somethin' more vigorous?" said the girl.

"No, no. It was a compliment," said Josephine.  

"Oh! Ta muchly, madam." "It's a trick I learned from Rosie, gettin' out them knots and things wi'out it hurtin'." 

Josephine hummed with pleasure, and decided to converse with the girl. "And Rosie is?" she asked.

"Rosie use ta be down i'th' kitchens, but then she was a whipping girl? On my faith, I forget. But anyway, she works as His Highness' mistress-"

"Oi!" the young woman cut in, speaking for the first time. "Rose is the Prince's handmaid. Or she was. They sent her to help in the Chantry when the Lyrium Initiative started," the young woman explained. 

Josephine, who had not been paying the conversation as much attention as she should've-the girl's hands were _talented_ , and the Ambassador wasn't kidding about falling back asleep-perked up at the mention of the Initiative.

"What do you think of the Initiative?" asked Josephine.

"I don't know much about it," the girl confessed bashfully.

"What about you?" Josephine asked the young woman.

"It's certainly a big help to Ferelden," said the woman. "But I didn't know it was so badly needed, 'specially after the Breach closed. I'd have thought the Inquisitor got rid of all that."

"Actually, the Inquisitor's efforts were directed at getting rid of the red lyrium deposits, which were corrupting the Templars and poisoning towns across Thedas." "Although, had she lived, she would've dealt with lyrium addiction next," Josephine said.  _  
_

The two servants were listening attentively to the Ambassador's words, when the older maid suddenly started.

"Oh! A basin of water for your hair," said the young woman suddenly. "I'll be just a second, milady." She turned to the girl. "Finish the Ambassador's hair, Victoria. And then send to have the bath removed." 

"I know, Gertie," said the girl-Victoria-petulantly. Gertie merely gave the girl a stern look, then swept out of the room. Once Victoria could no longer hear Gertie's footsteps, she turned to the Ambassador. 

"Is it true what they say, Ambassador? About the Inquisitor and the Templar man?" she asked gently.

"You mean Commander Cullen?" Josephine asked.

The girl nodded. "They said he were so heartbroken after she died that he threw himself on th' pyre wi' her." "That's why they ain't found no body." "Is that true?"

Josephine could still recall the grief on Cullen's face as it was lit up by Vashidira Lavellan's pyre, as though it happened yesterday, and she nearly said _Almost, girl_. 

"He was certainly devastated, but no, he didn't lie on her pyre," said Josephine. She didn't want to and could not afford to think about Vashidira or the grief over her death that ripped Cullen apart better than lyrium ever could. So she changed topics.

"Tell me about yourself, though...Victoria. Named after the Divine?"

"Yes, milady," said the girl. "The other girl is my cousin, Gertrude. But we all call her Gertie." "But you can't be interested in us common folk." "Why don't you talk more of the Inquisitor and her Templar fellow?"

That Victoria assumed Josephine was disinterested in common people and then asked after other lowborn people was an irony not lost on the Ambassador. But the girl had mettle and spunk and so Josephine humored her.

"What would you like to know?" asked Josephine.

"Was the Inquisitor really a magic elf?"

"Well...the Inquisitor was a Dalish, from Clan Lavellan in the Free Marches. But she wasn't a mage, if that's what you're asking. It was the Anchor-the mark on her hand-that was magical. But she was good friends with powerful mages."

"And the Templar, he loved her? Even though she was an elf with a magic hand? _And_ a Free Marcher?" Victoria asked incredulously. 

"Commander Cullen loved her so, so much," said Josephine, her voice a tender whisper.  

"Cullen," said Victoria slowly, savoring the name. "That's a cute name, Cullen."

 _He'd be embarrassed to hear that_ , thought Josephine.

"He'd appreciate that," said Josephine.

Victoria was about to ask more questions, but Gertie suddenly reappeared with the basin.

"I hope you haven't been harassing the Ambassador, Vicki." With that, she handed over the basin, and in a few minutes, Josephine's bath was done. Josephine stepped out and began to oil her skin as Victoria cleaned up and with a polite "milady," withdrew. Meanwhile, Gertie had laid out some clothes and was preparing the vanity.

"Would you like help dressing, milady?" she asked. Josephine didn't, but she could see the value in getting friendly with the help, especially when they were chatty, so she nodded and stood as Gertie helped her into her stockings and dress.

"Please forgive my younger cousin, Ambassador. She's just turned thirteen and she thinks she's the smartest person in Thedas," said Gertie. "And she's got her little feelings now for the baker's son, but his family's an uppity bunch, even moreso after the cheesecake and-" Gertie stopped herself.

"Ha, please excuse me; these are just the trifles of the lowborn," Gertie said. 

"Not a problem at all," said Josephine. "And I find Victoria a charming girl." 

That got Josephine a small smile from Gertie, who continued helping to fasten and adjust her clothes. 

"What do you do here?" asked Josephine.

"I'm a maid," said Gertie. "Specifically, Victoria and I will be attending you during your stay here."

"Ah," said Josephine, "I like the idea."

Another smile from Gertie, this time as she led Josephine to the vanity and began fixing her hair and face.

"You and Victoria mentioned knowing the Prince's handmaid. Do you see the royal family often?"

"No, milady. We know Rosie because she's lowborn herself. It's through her we came to learn of the Prince."

"What is His Highness like?" Josephine asked.

"In a word? Pretty," Gertie said. 

"Is...is what Victoria says about them true?" Josephine asked.

Gertie sighed. "That girl ought to be boxed on the ears," she muttered. Gertie paused for a moment, considering her words before continuing, "Rosie is a lovely young woman, and the Prince is a handsome young man who happens to like beautiful young women." "But there are several such women I could say the same for, and so His Highness' interests could lie several places."

"I see," said Josephine. Clearly Gertie's chattiness had its limits, as opposed to her younger cousin. The Ambassador mused on how best to get Victoria alone more during her stay, as Gertie worked diligently on her hair.

"Do you like how it's looking, milady?" asked Gertie finally, motioning to the Ambassador's hair. 

"It's perfect," said Josephine. It was swept up into a lovely updo, curled slightly and held in place with pearl hairpins at the nape of her neck. With a few final adjustments, the pair left the room. 

In the doorway, Josephine was suddenly flooded by sound and motion; servants and noblemen were pacing the halls and talking rapidly. She hadn't realized just how much of the outside had been blocked by the large wooden door.

"The castle seems very busy today," said Josephine.

"That it is, madam," said Gertie. "We're getting ready for the high summer festival. There's going to be balls and such every day for weeks." 

"It sounds lovely," said Josephine.

"That it is; and we'd love to have you attend, Ambassador," said Gertie. "Ah! We're at the dining hall; you'll be attended well. By your leave, Ambassador," she said, and then swiftly withdrew.

Looking around, hardly anyone had arrived to the dining hall, which struck Josephine as strange. Still, she moved gracefully to a spot near the end of a side table, and was settling down when suddenly Chancellor Teagan appeared beside her. 

"Good morning, Ambassador," said Teagan.

"Good morning, Lord Chancellor," said Josephine.

"Are you enjoying things at the Royal Palace so far?" he asked. 

"Yes, very much. And I look forward to talking before your council later this morning."

"As do we all. His Majesty is particularly eager as well; I'm sure you two will have an easy week of negotiations."

Josephine, who had been enjoying her breakfast up to now, nearly choked.

"You mean to say," she said, clearing her throat (and noting Teagan's mild amusement), "I will be talking with King Alistair this week?"

"Yes," he said. "You might, in fact, see all the royal family."

"I look forward to it," Josephine said brightly. Inwardly, she was panicking. When King Alistair granted her stay in the Royal Palace, she'd eagerly accepted, thinking that he'd only attend a few councils and draft a bill after her departure. Now, apparently, not only would he be present, she would in fact be hammering out most of the details with him personally.

Josephine was frazzled; her nerves had been tried more in the past day and a half than any time she could remember before.

 _Fereldan men and their damn surprises,_  she thought, in a burst of uncharacteristic frustration. She went to ask more questions of the Lord Chancellor, but he was engaged; in fact, during the course of their chat, the dining hall had slowly begun filling up. Josephine swallowed her concerns and made pleasantries with those around her as the meal drew to a close.

In the council chamber, Josephine watched as officials, noblemen and women from all over Thedas trickled in and took their seats. She tried to pick them out: some she recognized as influential members in the Bannorn; near the front was Teryn Fergus Cousland and what had to have been two of his sons; the younger one, who was particularly attractive at a glance seemed to be talking with them animatedly, before slipping away out of Josephine's view.

She had been losing herself in the low murmur of the crowd, and finding some peace, when suddenly a quiet descended over the room, and Josephine knew without looking that King Alistair had arrived. Immediately turning and curtsying deeply, she could see his feet ascend to the throne, hear the barely audible squeak as he sat down. 

"Let this session of council be called to order," said Lord Chancellor Teagan, and just like that, Josephine's week had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a small peace offering as midterm season was/is whipping my ass.


	10. The Morning Star (Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether to all Ferelden or only his son, Alistair is a father first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, and neither is the fic! Yay! As thanks for the long wait, take this long ass chapter.

The King of Ferelden was, quite literally, the most accommodated person in the country; not even the other members of the royal family (in this case, just the Crown Prince) enjoyed as many privileges. His Majesty had the best clothes, the best food and wine, the best bed.

The bed in particular was a masterpiece, practical art secluded in His Majesty's bedroom chambers. Its mattress and pillows were stuffed with swans' downy feathers. The mattress had been hand woven by the most skilled weavers in Thedas. Covering the mattress were silk sheets, and the canopy over the bed was a fine velvet, embroidered with gold.

It was on this bed that Alistair lay entangled in the sheets, in the throes of his worst nightmare.

He was back at Ostagar, having just lit the torch, and darkspawn had burst through to the top of the tower, an ugly, swarming mass. To his side was Elizabeth Cousland, cutting down darkspawn left and right. To his other side was an ogre, and he quickly stabbed his sword into its neck. The ogre's blood gushed out, dark and foul, splashing the side of Alistair's armor. 

And then suddenly, Alistair stopped, looking over Elizabeth's shoulder, and time seemed to slow to a stop with him, there on the top of the tower. 

Down on the ground, Alistair could see the slaughter of Cailan's army, the massacre of the Grey Wardens. There was Duncan, fighting valiantly, and Alistair watched him, knowing he was a dead man. He looked on as his friends were cut down one by one, and Ostagar slowly turned into a bloodbath. This seemed to go on forever, when a flash of gold caught his eye.

It was Cailan, suddenly swooped up into the ogre's clutches. And then Alistair looked closer, and saw that it wasn't Cailan at all; it was _much worse_. 

There, in the armor of the Theirin kings, eyes full of terror, was Alistair's son. And he could see the shock and terror on his son's face so clearly because suddenly  _he was the ogre_ , looking down into the Prince's face with malicious delight.

 _Not this. Please, Maker, anything,_ anything _but this_ , Alistair thought.

But the king was trapped, screaming unheard in the monster's body, and his son was trapped in his clutches. Alistair could hear the Archdemon's evil, dark cackle echo inside his head; he could feel its will coiling through his being, malevolent and bloodthirsty. _Maker_ , it was so violating and so powerful, the corruption in his blood filling him with evil, inhuman desires. Alistair could feel a faint buzzing in his head, realizing with sudden horror that he was succumbing to the Archdemon, his mind slipping away like sand through his fingers. 

He fought so hard against destiny, trying with every ounce of his willpower to open his hand and let his son go. Alistair could see his son, flushed and sweaty with exertion, kicking and wriggling in his grasp to no avail. And then the Archdemon's will shot through Alistair like a hot poker; he could feel his face twist into some horrible approximation of a smile, sick unwanted pleasure surging through him as his hand was forced closed.

Alistair was screaming harder and louder than he ever had in his life, and nobody could hear. On principle he should've gone numb-but he could hear it all, feel it all. He felt the armor give under his fingers. Alistair could feel his son's body breaking, his bones cracking and shifting unnaturally. He could hear the choked, wet cries of his son's death throes. Alistair could see the eyes, wide with shock and terror for one last moment before they went lifeless and half-lidded. He could see the blood spray from his son's mouth and onto his armor, onto Alistair's hands, where it ran, still warm, down his fingers.

Something in Alistair's body was going to give way violently, if he did not stop screaming. But it was all he could do as his arm moved of its own accord and tossed the Prince's body carelessly-

-and suddenly Alistair was himself again on the tower, watching the ruined armor flying by, glinting in the dimming light like a shooting star as time slowly came back, and he was turning away and raising his sword to strike another blow-

"Sire! Sire, _please_!" came some voices.

With a gasp Alistair awoke in bed, looking around wildly, trying to get his bearings. On each side was a servant, holding his arms down. Through the curtains over the bed, Alistair could hear a commotion; suddenly, Teagan was pulling back the velvet canopy, looking massively concerned.

Without preamble, he slapped the King, twice. Alistair gaped at him, silent and open mouthed. 

Everyone watched in stunned silence as Teagan detached the servants from Alistair, one by one. Through the curtains, Alistair could see there was a third servant, a stout older woman picking herself off the ground and getting into a sitting position. 

"What happened here?" Teagan asked the servants. 

"There was a racket, coming from here," said the woman, who Alistair now recognized as one of his more senior servants. "When I went to check, there was His Majesty, all in a state." "I tried to calm him-kicked me right across the room, he did!" The woman-Ermentrude was her name-sounded shaken and indignant, and Alistair's face burned as he hung his head low.

"He did at that!" said one of the two male servants, a young man about the Prince's age. "I heard Ermentrude moanin' an' I got Paul to send for you, and we came to help out, Lord Chancellor."

Teagan looked at Alistair. "What happened here?" he asked. Alistair gave him such a pitiful, plaintive look that the Lord Chancellor shooed out the servants.

"What happened, Alistair?" Teagan asked again, more gently. In halting, shaking tones, Alistair recounted his dream, his composure wearing thinner and thinner until he was quietly sobbing into Teagan's chest as his tale ended.

"Maker's breath," breathed out Teagan. "It'll be aright, Alistair. It'll be okay."  For several minutes there was silence as he held the King, stroking his hair and rocking him back and forth.

"But why would this happen?" Alistair finally asked. "What kind of demons are these?!" he cried out, still anguished. 

"I'm sure it's not so serious as that," said Teagan, immediately placing his hands on Alistair's shoulders. The Lord Chancellor thought long and hard on what the issue could be, as Alistair sat on the bed looking at him like a frightened boy.

"Ah! I think I might know," Teagan said. "Remember the speech His Highness gave not too long ago?"

Alistair nodded.

"I think it was that. You were a bit disturbed by it, remember?"

Alistair nodded again.

"Alright. Don't fret, okay? Take some time and get ready. Do you want a bath?"

Alistair had no intention of bathing today, but he was covered in sweat, trickling down his body like it were blood-

Alistair nodded yet again to Teagan.

"I'll make arrangements, then." Then the Lord Chancellor quietly slipped through the door, leaving Alistair to his thoughts.

But there were no thoughts at first; for several minutes Alistair sat on his bed with only the sounds of his breathing to fill his head.

He was feeling just a bit more like himself when there was a knock on the door. A page announced the help and quietly shut the door. Two young maids silently began preparing the bath.

The bath was a modern thing-one could simply turn a knob and draw water into a brass tub; a gift from Orzammar. Despite having had it for several years now, Alistair still found it a new, slightly marvelous thing. He wondered if whether one day such a thing wouldn't be common to all Ferelden, and it was that wonder of new things that reminded Alistair of his day's agenda, which required yet another damned negotiation with Skyhold. 

One of the Inquisitor's most endearing-and enduring-legacies had nothing to do with the Breach she closed. Nor did it have to do with the Lyrium Initiative sweeping Thedas. No, years after Vashidira Lavellan's life and death, one of the more popular stories about her was how she learned to read and write during her year in Skyhold. That a Dalish woman became literate, and a leader, was a concept that was nearly inconceivable to most of Thedas-until it happened.

Once it did, though, it ignited a fire that refused to die. With Skyhold developing schools in the Inquisitor's honor, it had begun turning out some of the best educated people outside of the Chantry. Those secular and well-educated children, in turn, had made Skyhold so powerful that it was nearly a country in itself. This was the thing every monarch wanted for his own kingdom and despised in others, and Alistair was no exception. So, wanting Ferelden to be competitive with the rest of Thedas, he set to work on developing an education plan, something that had only become more important to him with the start of the Lyrium Initiative. 

That was when Alexander had been called in to reassure everyone about the success of the plan. Alistair could still remember the day, just over a month ago. The Landsmeet had been packed full-after all, there wasn't a single area in Ferelden where this new plan wasn't to be felt. Alistair was answering questions from the nobles, which had been going well-until someone had begun to raise trouble about where, exactly, the funding for said schools would come from.

"Our coffers are empty!" came a voice from high above. "And if I can't fill my coffers, how can I be expected to help fill the heads of the lowborn?!"

"You will do it with the assistance- _and at the command_ -of the monarchy," retorted Alistair. But his attempt to regain control had gone south. Murmurs and dissent spread faster than wildfire. 

"Why would we do this anyhow?" cried one noble. "We promised the dirtborn our lives, not our privileges!" That caused a small uproar of approval, and Alistair quietly sighed. 

"The young must have their chance," Alistair said, "if this nation is to succeed in the future." 

" _Our_ young are not good enough?!" someone retorted, indignant. The Landsmeet had become a monolith of defiance, mounted to slay the king-or at least annoy him to death. 

"All Fereldan children are good enough-that's the point," said Alistair.

"Then let the children testify-let your child defend the children!" demanded the Landsmeet.  And so Prince Alexander was sent for, and appeared in a few minutes, looking very much like he'd been caught in a private moment as he approached the center of the Landsmeet. 

"Your Highness is flushed," said Teagan. "We hope we haven't interrupted anything important?" The Landsmeet snickered with their eyes.

"Erm...no...but if you could tell me why I've been summoned?..." asked the Prince. 

"Your Highness has been called here to affirm the education program," said Teagan. 

Alexander processed this, nodded and moved to the podium as the Landsmeet turned its attention to him. There was a moment of silence, and then he began to speak:

"So. We have Chantry scholars," he began, hesitantly. "But...what if we just had scholars?" His question was met with silence, punctuated by a solitary cough.

The Prince turned redder, cleared his throat, and continued.

"See, what I mean to say is...the Chantry has...commoners in the Chantry are the best educated in Thedas. But that means that the Chantry has all the power. And the Chantry leads us in faith, but it doesn't always support state interest-and we are the state," said Alexander, now slowly coming into his stride. 

"Their education is necessary, I don't mean to say otherwise. Could you imagine an ignorant, untrained Mage?" Alexander continued.

"But our lower class is just as important," said the Prince. "Every one of us here was chosen by the Maker to take up the mantle-to kill and die for each other and this country." "But there are only so many of us. We can fill this room, but there are a million Fereldans out there, a million opportunities to display our power that go unused." "And power unused is power abused-so we must consider that too."

Now the Landsmeet began to stir, considering the heir apparent and his words more carefully. 

"I am, like my father-and like all of you should be-prepared to lay down my life," said Alexander. "That is our true noble cause, but it is also a last resort. There are other ways."

"And this education plan you seek, that is how we cheat death?" came a voice.

"Yes," replied the Prince. "That is how we choose life, and power. It's a step forward, and steps become leaps and bounds ahead of everyone else."

"Consider that in Skyhold the scholars, free of the Chantry's yoke are powerful enough now to turn the settlement into a country-and all that despite their lowborn nature," Alexander continued on. "A whole country, a tiny empire, forged from the dreams of refugee children!"

"Imagine if that was us," he said, his voice almost wistful. "Our people, so empowered that their very dreams expand Ferelden and conquer Thedas." Alexander paused to let his words sink in as he gathered more thoughts.

From where he sat, Alistair watched his son standing at the podium in the middle of the floor, looking down, lips pursed. Alistair could not have known that in that moment his son was quietly hoping for his approval. Alexander did not know that had he simply looked up he would have found it in his father's eyes, as intense as the sun. So they each continued on their parallel paths, unable to reach out but close enough to yearn, and burn for yearning.

"And consider, still, that in Tevinter there's a magister championing the cause of elves, not entirely unsuccessfully!" said the Prince excitedly. "And in Orlais, elves can attend the university!" "We cannot be seen to be more backwards than Orlesians and _Tevenes_!" 

There was a low rumble in the Landsmeet as Alexander continued to talk, his voice growing more impassioned.

"For too long, Fereldans have watered this earth with their sweat and tears. I want our soil wet with the blood of our enemies, our sky filled with the lamentations of their women!" he cried. "I want the best for this nation, which is why I want this-which is why I would fall on my sword here and now rather than see us fail!" With that, Alexander drew his sword and thrust it in the air. 

Alistair's mouth twitched downward, betraying his heartache at the idea of his son dying-but nonetheless, the Landsmeet had been whipped into a frenzy of loud approval, and with that, the day was won. Now, Skyhold's ambassador was here to talk more about its school system as Ferelden slowly implemented their own plan.

Which was how, by and by, Alistair found himself looking over that day's council as if in a dream, his body and soul weary from the nightmare. As the proceedings began, he could see the Ambassador turning to him, but his eye searched the crowd until he saw Alexander; after that he relaxed, and began listening.

The Ambassador was answering questions about how the schools were set up, what the children learned, how much it cost, what the benefits were. The council had gone smoothly until the end when someone-a lower member of the Bannorn-asked, "All this was by the late Inquisitor Lavellan's design?"

"Yes...it was her idea, from the start," the Ambassador replied, full of her usual aplomb.

The council was tranquil, but Alistair's ears suddenly pricked: he sensed a lie. Still, he needed the nobles' continued cooperation if his plan was to run as smoothly as possible. So Alistair held his tongue as council was dismissed for the day, and quietly had Teagan show the Ambassador into his private office. 

Many were his years, and few were his pleasures; but Alistair had only the one son, more precious to him than anything else in the world, and he refused to let him perish to a lie-and it was that desire that drove the weariness from his bones as he went to seek the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: A title change is coming, so keep posted.


	11. A Good Fereldan Man (Josephine and Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine discovers that finding the truth sometimes requires truthfulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back into Josephine's POV to finish out what started in the last chapter and keep our arc flowing nicely.

When Lord Chancellor Teagan quietly pulled Josephine aside, saying that His Majesty wanted to see her in his offices right away, it took all of her training not to turn around and gawp at the King. She'd expected to meet with him personally, but not so soon-and as it was only the first meeting of the week, she couldn't imagine what was on his mind. 

"Do you know what His Majesty wants?" Josephine asked as they walked to the King's office.

"He didn't say, Ambassador. But I trust you will know soon enough," said Teagan.

The rest of the walk passed in a pleasant chatter that dwindled into silence as the pair entered the King's office. Waiting for His Majesty, for at least a few moments Josephine could process her thoughts. The pressure of the past two days was steadily closing in on her, but Josephine pulled herself together by sheer force of will, pushing her emotions to the side to collect information instead. 

A room said as much, if not more about a person as their words; what would the King's office say about him? Josephine searched for the answer, hands politely clasped behind her back.

The first thing she noticed was the large painting of what had to be the late Queen Anora. The second thing Josephine noticed was that every ounce of blue in her portrait was painted in lapis lazuli; all the blonde in Her Majesty's hair had highlights of gold foil. It was one of the most marvelous things Josephine had ever seen. She couldn't recall any other portrait she'd seen in the Palace so far with such a splendid treatment. 

Finally tearing her eyes away from the other portrait, Josephine looked around the room for other information. Comfortable chairs faced a beautiful mahogany desk. Large windows let in plenty of light. The thick door ensured privacy. Beautiful tapestries added a Fereldan sensibility to what was otherwise a thoughtfully plain room. But Josephine's gaze returned again and again to the portrait, as dazzlingly beautiful as the sun. But after looking headlong into the sun everything else becomes dulled, and as it is with the sun, so it was with the portrait. Everything else to Josephine's eyes had become as the night-or rather, the portrait made everything in the room more beautiful for its presence, so that Josephine was continually paying homage to it.

A soft click from the front door reminded Josephine to pay homage to the King, and she dropped into a polite curtsy. 

"Ambassador," said Alistair.

"Your Majesty wished to see me?" Josephine asked demurely.

"Ah, that I did. I wanted to discuss the education policies with you as a temporary adviser," he said as he walked around to the other side of the desk, casually looking over some papers in his hand. Taking a seat, Alistair motioned for her and the Lord Chancellor to sit as well. A small moment passed before he spoke again.

"Before I begin, I'd like to ask you something, Ambassador."

"Of course, Sire."

"Why did you lie to my council?" Alistair said in patient tones.

Josephine nearly choked. Teagan's eyes raised in surprise. A small knowing smile played on Alistair's lips.

"I'm a king and a father," he said almost sympathetically. "Makes you good at ferreting out lies."

 _Do you get it from being a king, or a king's bastard,_  thought Josephine. But those were thoughts borne of tension-and she knew if Alistair saw those thoughts in her face, the meetingcould go from uncomfortable to dangerous: guards were no doubt waiting outside with their hands on the knobs.

Resigned to the fact that she had lost a fabulous business opportunity to the most unassuming monarch in Thedas, Josephine decided to cut her losses and admit the truth. 

"I admit I was telling a small lie about _everything_ being the Inquisitor's plan," the Ambassador admitted. 

"Go on," Alistair said.

"The Lady Inquisitor certainly gave it consideration...and perhaps a base draft of a plan...but she only lived the year," said Josephine hesitantly. "So..." she continued, still maintaining her composure outwardly, "ultimately, the Inquisitor was not the one who helped draft the plan."

"Oh?" Lord Chancellor Teagan jumped in. "So, who is Skyhold really in collusion with? Is it the Orlesians?" The whole room grew tense.

"No!" Josephine said, surprised and alarmed at the Lord Chancellor's sudden accusation. 

"Are you here to sell Ferelden's state secrets to Orlais? Because that's treason, Ambassador." The King's tone was verging on open hostility. 

"I assure you, I would never!" said Josephine, now massively concerned. 

"Can you? Your training is in Orlais. You are close with the spymaster, who is Orlesian, are you not?" Teagan was now interrogating Josephine.

"Leliana..." Alistair cut in before hesitating. "Such a thing would leave us open to another Orlesian occupation."

"Skyhold's education plans are not a scheme of the Orlesians!" "Orlais is not even interested in such a thing!" Josephine cried. And that, too, was a tiny lie, for the Orlesian government was at least minutely interested in Ferelden's education plans, if only to make a potential profit.

Josephine, for her part, kept that to herself; in less than ten minutes she had gone from defending an education plan to defending herself from accusations of high treason-she did not need more trouble.

"Let us assume that what you say is true, Ambassador Montilyet," came a young man's voice. "You still need to say who, in fact, helped you create this education system."

Josephine turned to the Prince, who had been silent until now.

"..it was the former Commander, Your Highness," said Josephine. 

"Do you have proof?" Alistair asked. In the silence that enveloped the room, Josephine racked her brain until...

"Yes, Sire, in my room," Josephine said, keeping her voice steady with monumental effort. 

Alistair sent for two guards to bring Josephine's papers, then settled again. 

"I hope for your sake that what you say is true, Ambassador," said the King.

"It is, Sire, I promise," said Josephine. Her heart was pounding in her ears. The Lord Chancellor and the Prince were talking quietly among themselves, but the King had taken to casually looking over his papers, unruffled. The sound of the door opening drew everyone back to attention, as Josephine's papers were laid out on the desk.

With steady hands, she sorted through her papers, looking for the document to prove her innocence...until...

"Ah! I think these should be sufficient." Josephine withdrew several old papers and presented them to the men. 

The three men pored silently over the yellowed papers, all of which were pages of notes and reports to Josephine about the education plan, all of which were signed _Cullen Rutherford._

For a moment afterward, Alistair sat staring silently at Josephine, eyes intense and unblinking, posture upright but relaxed. 

"Ambassador," he finally said, "you are a competent and experienced woman." "Leliana has sung your praises to me a time or two-and I have seen firsthand, many times over the years, that that praise is more than deserved."

"Thank you, Sire-" Josephine began, but Alistair cut her off with a hand wave.

"Therefore," he continued, "I will not condescend to you with a lecture. What I will do, however, is stress to you the importance of honesty in our relationship, and the importance of maintaining trust between Ferelden and Skyhold." There was a small pause before Alistair continued.

"The Inquisitor's...erm..Commander Cullen-I didn't know him well," said the King. "But what I do know was that he was, by all accounts, a good man-a good Fereldan man." "Despite what others may say, I won't be ashamed of another man's love, nor of his grief-for every man is entitled to at least that much." 

It was all too much for Josephine; a tear came to her eye. "I...I beg Your Majesty's forgiveness," she said.

"You have it," said Alistair.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Josephine said, and the relief in her voice was impossible not to hear. 

"Now the matter's done," said Alistair, "I say something less formal is in order. Bevin arrived a few days ago, didn't he? Bring him here, Lord Chancellor."

"You'll love Bevin," Prince Alexander suddenly piped up, turning to Josephine now. "He travels everywhere and tells the best stories."

"Ah," Josephine said lightly, "I eagerly await him then." Looking at the Prince's serene smile suddenly reminded her of something else.

"That's a lovely portrait," said Josephine, nodding at the lustrous painting on the wall.

"Isn't it?" Alexander said. "Lady Cousland sat for it a few years after the Blight."

Josephine was shocked. The portrait wasn't of the Queen, but the King's mistress? The two women looked astonishingly similar; no wonder she'd assumed the painting was of the Prince's mother. Then again, Josephine remembered Leliana telling her-

Lord Chancellor Teagan had returned, with a young man in tow. _That must be Bevin_ , Josephine thought.

Bevin bowed politely to everyone in the room. Teagan indicated that he wanted a private word with Alistair, who gathered up his papers and stepped just outside the door.

"Are you sure you're not going too easy on her, Sire?" Teagan asked in hushed whispers.

"No, the Ambassador's telling the truth, I'm sure of it," said Alistair. "And you're not usually so suspicious of her. Is something wrong?"

"Not really, she's...it's just been a distracting time of year," Teagan said, deflated.

Alistair silently handed Teagan the pile of papers he'd been loooking over. "Look over these if you're unsure, and get back to me." 

Teagan nodded, with a quiet "by your leave, Your Majesty," and with that, the men parted ways. Halfway down the hall, Teagan looked at the papers Alistair had given him, and stopped in astonishment: They were all copies of Josephine's letters and documents! No wonder Alistair had been so sure of himself.

Teagan smiled fondly. Alistair had come such a long way, and Teagan took a quiet moment to be proud of the man he'd become-then he quickly went back to his office. 

 

Meanwhile, Josephine, Bevin, and the Royal family made their way out of the King's office and into another, more private chamber. For the rest of the afternoon Bevin regaled everyone with stories of his traveling abroad.

"...and so that's how I ended up in the wilderness just outside the Free Marches," Bevin was saying. 

"Sounds treacherous," said the Prince.

"That it was, Your Highness," said Bevin, "but it was more bizarre than anything else."

"Well go on, don't leave us in the dark," said Alistair.

"Okay, well, I had been stranded for about three days, and I was trying to find my way back to a settlement however I could, so I was cutting through the brush when suddenly, I came upon...a wildman."

"Wildman?" Josephine asked.

"Indeed, Ambassador. He was a ragged, worn out old thing. So filthy that he blended right into the forest setting. I just looked over and saw a pair of eyes, wild and cunning like. So I reach for my old trusted sword-the one the Warden used at Redcliffe-and he just kept staring at me." "That's when I turned around and saw, a short distance away, a few dead rabbits-it must've been the man's dinner." "Well, that's when he leapt out at me, and we immediately fought."

"Did you kill him?" The Prince asked.

"No, we traded blow after blow, and he was a skilled fighter with a sword of his own. I daresay if he hadn't been so worn from hunger he would've beat me. But as it was, I got the upper hand and finally got him down." "And so I tell him, I says, 'I don't mean you any harm'." "And he says, 'If you fight as slow as you talk, you won't last the week.' Turns out he was a Fereldan!"

"You don't say," said Alistair, amusedly.

"He was, Sire," said Bevin. "When it came to it, though, he was a true gentleman. Even shared that dinner with me. Showed me what berries to choose, where hostile Dalish lived an' all."

"So," said Alexander, "he was some...wild man of the forest type?"

"Yes and no." said Bevin. "Initially I figured he was a settler that came in after the Blight-I mean, he said he'd arrived in Kirkwall...er, New Starkhaven now, shortly after the Blight ended-but he came as a templar, which explained his skill with the sword."

"Did he say anything else about himself?" Josephine asked.

"In bits and pieces, Ambassador." "Said he was at the Circle until 9:40 or so, then after that it was patchy," said Bevin. "He said something about a woman who died-maybe his wife?" "I don't know for sure."

"Impossible," Alistair cut in, "templars don't get married." "But how does a Fereldan end up in the wilderness just outside the Free Marches?"

"I wondered that myself, Your Majesty. He didn't say much about it, simply that he'd been traveling around-I suspect he'd actually been on the run for quite some time, and was just hiding out for a while."

A tremor ran through Josephine at that.  _Could it be?_ she wondered, but she quashed the thought; it was too much to hope.

"What part of Ferelden was he from?" Alistair asked.

"I don't remember precisely, but he had a heavy Southern accent," Bevin said. "Not from any big city, though, that was for sure."

"Well...that's definitely curious," said the Prince.

"Ah! I know now," said Bevin. "He's from Leaf Village."

"What?" Alistair said, incredulous. "There's no such thing."

"Sounds more Dalish than Fereldan," The Prince chimed in.

"Perhaps it was Honnleath?" Josephine suggested.

"Sounds pretty likely," said Alistair. "Well," he continued, "this is definitely a story to continue another day." "Now's dinnertime."

With that, the party filed out of the room and headed downstairs to the dining room. The Royal Family was engaged in conversation with Bevin, and soon, almost everyone in the hall was too-everyone except Josephine. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the wildman Bevin had described earlier. If only Bevin had been able to give a physical description, then Josephine could be sure she was onto something. But there were several templars who'd been displaced from Kirkwall's Circle after the bombing, and still more following the Breach. Besides, no man could possibly hide from the full force of the Inquisition for so long and be alive.

Still, how many of those templars were from Honnleath? Josephine knew of only one. But tempting as the possibility was, it was a long shot-and it wasn't the purpose of Josephine's visit, so she made a mental note of it for later. Silently drawing in a deep breath, she re-engaged in the conversation so fluidly the crowd hardly realized she'd been quiet. During a lull, Josephine had dainty bites of the evening meal. It was a tender, well seasoned pheasant, with cooked greens. The saucemaster had outdone himself; Josephine could taste a masterful blend of spices, some of which had come from as far away as Rivain. In between the large courses were small cakes topped with candied lemon slices, an Antivan specialty. It was exquisite in taste and form. Thanks to Josephine's nerves, she could only finish half of it, and when she retired to her room that night, she sent for yet another sleeping draught.

In the waxing moonlight, Josephine offered up a quick, silent prayer, then downed her sleeping draught. _Maker_ , she thought, _this is going to be a long week-_ then everything rapidly faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My story and I are still alive in these hard times. (yay!)
> 
> Also, I might start naming my chapters for easier reference and browsing.


	12. To Sleep No More (Alexander)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is rotten in the state of Ferelden, and Alexander is determined to find out what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're finally getting a chapter from Prince Alexander!
> 
> A shorter chapter, but with more action.

The Prince of Ferelden lay in his bed at the end of a long day, but he couldn't quite put his mind at ease-Lord Chancellor Teagan's outburst in the afternoon lingered in his mind.

 _What was all that about?_ Alexander wondered. Yes, Ambassador Montilyet had been lying about the extent of the late Lady Inquisitor's involvement. But lies in a royal court were like masks in Orlais: it was simply the culture. Yet Teagan, seasoned and usually unflappable, had suddenly exploded about it. And Alexander had noticed that even hours later, the Ambassador seemed a bit quiet at dinner-so he'd pulled Teagan aside that night.

"Lord Chancellor," Alexander began, "what happened today?"

"With regards to what, Your Highness?" Teagan replied.

"With Ambassador Montilyet. You weren't yourself, suddenly pouncing on her like that."

"I...admit I was out of line. Even your father said as much to me." Teagan looked down, clearly a bit ashamed.

"Why though, Lord Chancellor? You know better than almost everyone in Ferelden how easily relations with foreign nations can be damaged," said Alexander. "It's unlike you to wear your emotions on your sleeve like that."

"In truth, I can't really explain it myself," the Lord Chancellor said. "Perhaps I've been more stressed than usual."

"Perhaps," said the Prince. "Still, I think it best you find the Ambassador and apologize."

"I inquired after her when dinner ended, but apparently she went straight to bed," said Teagan. "I'll see the Ambassador in the morning."

"Good. In the meantime, you should get some rest yourself, Teagan," Alexander said softly.

"I will, Your Highness," said Teagan. For a moment he hesitated as though he wanted to say something else, but he gently bowed, then excused himself without another word.

Even that conversation had been strange, now that Alexander was reflecting on it. _I can't really explain it myself_ , Teagan said. But Alexander had always known Teagan to be a man who was sure in all things: in his love to his family and in his loyalty to the Crown, in his dealings with the Landsmeet and in negotiations with foreign nations. For the Lord Chancellor to suddenly be unsure and haphazard at such a critical moment...that didn't make sense. Still, Alexander had had a long day, so he managed to put his mind at rest long enough to drift off to sleep.

When he awoke the next morning, he'd found that he'd overslept through the next council meeting with Ambassador Montilyet and the Landsmeet.

"Wait a minute," His Highness said out loud to nobody in particular, "why didn't anyone wake me up?!" "Andraste's _ass_!"

Yes, the High Summer Festival was coming up, and that was never the easiest time, but this level of disorganization was unprecedented. And it made him look terrible to boot! He would be sure to have a very long, _very_ stern talk with his household staff, and so with not much to do, Alexander wandered into the library.

That was when he saw _it_.

 _It_ was a rather old leatherbound book, and though it looked incredibly plain from a glance, it had an undeniably strong pull. As soon as the Prince's eyes fell on it all his other thoughts vanished. Alexander's need to hold the book grew stronger with ever passing moment, until he felt possessed with an inhuman desire. Crossing the room to take the plain old book suddenly felt like he was traveling across the Hissing Wastes. A part of him-one that was growing smaller every second-knew he was in danger, but he couldn't turn away, he was so transfixed. The cover of the book had strange writing on it, which only intensified Alexander's interest. Against all reason, he opened the book and began to read.

 

When he opened his eyes again, the Prince didn't know what day it was, nor the time of day. Every inch of him felt as though he'd been in battle. His vision was dim and blurry. His entire body was covered in sweat, and his skin felt clammy. Most alarming of all was the unnatural churning sensation throughout his body, as though his soul was trying to crawl out through his mouth. He could hear voices, but couldn't understand what they were saying. Alexander tried to speak, but immediately started dry heaving.

"Close your eyes, Your Highness, and don't speak," came a woman's soft voice.

Alexander obeyed, gulping in air.

"Nod if you mean to say yes," she said. "Are you still in pain?"

Alexander nodded.

"Does your head hurt?"

There was a pause, then Alexander tentatively shook his head.

"...Do you remember much of what happened?"

Alexander shook his head again. This time there was a long pause before she spoke again.

"Try to open your eyes, Your Highness."

The Prince did as she said. This time, he could see that the room-his room, he recognized now-was actually bright with daylight. He realized the woman speaking was the Court doctor's assistant. She pressed a glass vial to his lips.

"Drink this, Your Highness. You'll feel better." A cold, tasteless liquid filled his mouth, and instantly he felt relief.

"Can you sit up, Your Highness?" said a man-the court doctor himself. The Prince nodded, then pushed himself upright.

"What happened?" said the Prince. He was surprised to hear how rough and hoarse his voice was.

"You were seen in a hallway near the library, when you suddenly collapsed and went into convulsions," said the doctor.

Alexander was shocked. "How long have I been out?" he asked. _Maker_ , he thought, _what if it's been days? Weeks?_.

"About three hours, Your Highness," said the doctor.

"Oh. Okay, that's not too bad," said the Prince.

"Still, you need to rest," the doctor said. "Don't do anything too vigorous."

Alexander nodded, and with that, the doctor and his assistant quietly left. When the door shut, Prince Alexander knew he'd be alone for some time. His friends were all at the Landsmeet and had probably been told to stay away for a few hours. Those of lesser rank weren't even allowed up here unless they were part of his household staff, and his father certainly couldn't stop negotiations to check on him.

Alexander sighed deeply. He could admit that he wasn't half the leader his father was. Yes, he was athletic, and good with a sword, but not as terrifyingly dangerous as Alistair. Even barehanded, His Majesty possessed strength and skill that was difficult to match, but Alistair's strengths went beyond being merely a good soldier: he was a good leader, and he had overcome his status as a bastard to become the king Ferelden needed. But as a hero of the Fifth Blight and the son of Maric, it was to be expected.

Nobody expected anything from Alexander except mediocrity, and he knew it. He was the Cailan to Alistair's Maric-and he knew that, too.

And now the Prince was officially having a sulk in bed.

Rosie would have cheered him up-but she wasn't here. And to make things worse she seemed to be, in the Prince's humble opinion, irrationally angry with him. Ever since he'd arrived back in Denerim, Alexander had written several letters to her explaining why he hadn't sent for her yet and what was happening at court, yet she hadn't sent a single response. It had been nearly two months now, for Maker's sake! Alexander knew that Rosamund knew how to read and write, and he was absolutely sure that there was at least a scrap of paper in the damned Chantry for her to use. And it wasn't like she was overseas, they were in the same city.

Rosie was his long time mistress and, perhaps more significantly, one of his most trusted confidantes. As a lowborn maid, he could rely on her to be his eyes and ears around the Royal Palace-which was how he came to know just how poorly the noble families thought of him. As his oldest friend, he could talk candidly with her. Yes, it was against the rules-Alexander was the heir apparent and thus shouldn't fraternize with one of the lowest members of his household. But she was by his side when even his other servants fled when he entered a room. It had been years since then, and his behavior-and popularity-had greatly improved, but Rosie remained his illicit friend and lover.

Until now, it seemed. Now, apparently, Rosie was going to throw away their whole relationship over a small matter. And it wasn't as though she'd be gone forever. Solace was just around the corner, and Rosie would be back by then. And she'd know that, if she would just _read his_ _fucking letters, Andraste's tits!_ It was so unlike her to be so cold towards him.

Rosamund's behavior was yet another thing that didn't make sense-and Alexander was just about sick of things not making sense. With that, he sent for a basin, and after cleaning himself and changing clothes, he left the room.

The first place he went to was the spymaster's office.

"Ah, Your Highness, I'm glad to see you," said the spymaster. He was a polite, nondescript, middle-aged man with greying hair and a vast knowledge of poisons.

"The pleasure is all mine. There's something I need to tell you," Alexander said.

"And I you," said the spymaster. "What do you know about your illness?"

"That I suddenly had convulsions in the hallway," said Alexander.

"Is that all you've been told? Then perhaps you should come with me," the spymaster said. The pair sat at a table, where a servant promptly poured out some tea and vanished.

"I think Your Highness ought to know the full story," the spymaster began. "You were first seen in the hallway just outside the library, pacing in circles and refusing to engage anyone." "Suddenly, you simply...contorted yourself."

"What?" asked Alexander, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, Your Highness. It was said your back bent until you were crawling on your neck," the spymaster said. "Most interesting, however, was the description of you a minute before the convulsions began-they said you'd begun speaking in tongues."

Alexander was white as a sheet, his face a mask of open-mouthed horror. "W-wait," he said, voice trembling, "who is 'they?'"

"Oh, just people here and there whose silence will be ensured...one way or the other," said the spymaster casually. "His Majesty hasn't been informed as yet-but once the day's negotiations are over, I daresay he'll want to see you."

"Well," Alexander said after a long pause, "this at least ties in to what I wanted to tell you," he said. "When I was in the library, the last thing I remember is picking up this book."

The spymaster leaned in. "Oh? What kind?"

"I don't quite know," said the Prince, "only that it was plain on the outside and it had strange letters on the front. It didn't look interesting, but it had the most powerful kind of pull."

"Very, very interesting," said the spymaster. "I'll meet with the mage advisor and we'll see whose book this is and what it does." "We'd best get to work immediately-by your leave, Your Highness."

With that, the meeting was over. Alexander headed outside to meet the stable master, then returned to his room. _Now comes the waiting game_ , thought the Prince. Laying in bed, he waited until just after sundown, then slipped out during dinner and headed to the stables. The stable boy was already waiting with a stallion and a lantern on hand.

"Here he is, Your Highness," said the young boy. "A quiet, fast one, like you asked for. All saddled up, too, ready to go."

"Good job," Alexander said. "Now, who else knows?"

"Just the stable master," said the boy.

"Be up when I get back and keep this as quiet as possible," said the Prince. With that, he reached in his cloak and withdrew two gold coins.

The boy's face lit up with glee as he took the money. "Thank you, Your Highness," he said, his voice a reverent whisper.

The Prince gave the stable boy a small smile and mounted the horse, then rode off through the front lawn and past the gate. By now the sky was just about dark, and Alexander took the opportunity to relish the cool evening air against his skin as he headed towards the Chantry. Since Rosie refused to answer his letters, she'd have to answer to him in person-and this time, Prince Alexander would not be ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in the same month?! Yup. Consider it a special thanks for all your support.


	13. The Valley of the Shadow of Death (Rosamund and Alexander)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosamund and Alexander find a moment of calm in the eye of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! The fic is back! Yay!
> 
> The story arc is nearing the midway point. Next chapter will be Alistair.

It had been another long day for Rosamund, and weariness seeped into her bones as she made her way outside the Chantry. Ever since her chat with...Colin, she remembered, she'd decided to make her trips outside a regular affair.

On the plus side, things at the Chantry had improved...somewhat. To be sure, men were still dropping like flies, but the ones who'd managed to make it this far were doing well, noticeably well even.

Like Colin, for instance. He'd been a pathetic creature when she first saw him, so painfully thin Rosamund wondered how he could even stand. But now he could walk upright, and had filled out nicely. Colin had begun occasionally sleeping through the night without screaming, and socializing-timidly-during the day. He'd even begun to make himself useful around the Chantry: sweeping the courtyard, chopping wood for the pyres and helping the sisters and staff push and lift heavier objects, mainly. If Colin continued improving at this rate, there was a good chance that he could eventually become a Chantry brother. It wasn't the life Rosamund would've wanted, but it seemed to suit Colin just fine, so it wasn't of much concern to her. Besides, it was leagues better than where he started. And though Rosamund hadn't spoken much more with Colin since that first night she stepped outside, she'd grown to like him, and she hoped he did well-she hoped they all did. 

Rosamund leaned against a wall and inhaled. The night air was warm, and she could hear now and again the sound of a crowd drunkenly singing. She couldn't pick out the tune, but she could feel the levity in it, and for a moment she wished she was there. But her world was restricted to the Chantry and occasionally the Marketplace. It wasn't as if she had the money to go anywhere else-and besides, what would she do in another town? And Rosamund couldn't go back to court, not after she'd been specifically ordered to stay here.

She sighed deeply. The drunken reverie from a few moments ago had died down by now-but Rosamund could hear a horse trotting toward her, and when she looked to see who was coming, she nearly choked. 

Riding toward her was none other than the Prince himself, with no retinue, wearing a dark cloak and holding a lantern. He stopped when he saw her and dismounted.

"Rosamund," said the Prince. He coughed, looking a bit foggy.

"Your Highness," Rosie replied, curtsying. She could tell Alexander wasn't used to breathing in the smoky air that had become so commonplace in Denerim now. "What brings you here?"

"You," he said curtly. 

"Me?" said Rosamund, surprised.

"Yes," said the Prince. "Your behavior has been questionable, and I demand an explanation."

Rosamund looked aghast. "My behavior?!" She sputtered, leading them both away from the Chantry. "I don't know what you're talking about, Alex."

"No, don't call me that, don't call me Alex, not after you had the gall to not return a single letter I've sent you," said His Highness, his voice a harsh whisper. 

"What? What letters?" Rosamund said out loud. "You haven't sent-" She paused, inhaling. "I haven't _received_  any letters, Highness."

Alexander crossed his arms. "I'm supposed to believe that?" he said flatly. "All those letters I've had sent out, and absolutely none of them made it down here?"

Rosamund could tell it wasn't really a question, but she had to persuade the Prince. "Please, please believe me, Your Highness," she pleaded. "Had I received a letter I would have surely responded."

There was a long pause. 

"Okay, Rosie," he finally said wearily, and Rosamund let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. The Prince hadn't called her Rosamund in years, and now only did so when something was truly bothering him. 

"What's happening, Alex?" asked Rosamund.

"I don't know," he replied. "Everything's going strangely, everyone's acting strangely...something's wrong, but I can't say specifically what," said Alexander. "I want you back with me Rosie, I have since the moment I knew you were away," he continued, "but now I'm not sure the Palace is a safe place for any of us to be."

The Fereldan Royal Palace was the most heavily secured place in Denerim, aside from the Circle across Lake Calenhad. Everyone with sense knew that-and she better than most, having worked there nearly all her life. If the Crown Prince no longer felt safe there...then what was going on?

The Prince stood in the darkness, pensively worrying at his lip. Rosamund stepped forward and he slipped an arm around her, gently pulling her close to him. The pair enjoyed a brief, quiet moment, but when she moved to kiss him, he pulled back, looking hesitant.

The gesture made Rosamund pause. Prince Alexander wasn't perfect, she knew that well enough-but if there was one thing he wasn't clumsy at, it was romance. What could possibly make him so hesitant- and with her of all people?

"There's something more I need to say," Alexander said. Leading her still farther away, he bent down and whispered into her ear the harrowing tale of what happened to him in the library earlier that day.

Rosamund paled when she heard the Prince's story, but when he was finished, she quietly squeezed his hand. It was then that he leaned into her touch and kissed her. The two finally shared a tender moment, peppering each other with soft kisses and gentle caresses. Rosamund leaned into his embrace, and for the first time since arriving at the Chantry let herself admit just how much she'd missed Alexander.  

"There's a dangerous enemy at court, Rose," Alex said. "I don't know who it is. If I accuse the wrong person, we could end up at war-and if I do nothing, I know something equally terrible could happen to us." The Prince's voice frayed into a low, vulnerable murmur. "I'm...I'm so afraid."

The trees rustled around them as darkness settled in. The sounds of merrymaking in the tavern had grown more subdued, and now a heavy silence began to linger over the pair.

"Surely there's something we can do," said Rosamund softly. "Maybe...tell me what you wanted to tell me in the letters? That could cheer you up as a start." Rosie smiled shyly, but in truth she felt as hopeless as Alex.

"The letters...they were just about the regular goings-on at court, my attempts to tell you why it was taking so long to bring you back...hold on." Alexander stopped. His face changed from despair to curiosity.

"I think I have an idea," he said. "I'm going to write you a letter. Two letters, in fact."

"I...I'm not sure I follow, Alex," said Rosamund.

"One letter will be exactly like all the other letters I've sent you-telling you about court information. The other one will be of me pretending to end things between us. I'll see which letter you receive, if any."

"What if I don't receive any letter? Then what?" Rosamund asked.

"Then...we're pretty much screwed," said Alex. "But I have a feeling that if I do this right, we might be successful." The Prince's face was lit with newfound hope. "Maker's breath, I think we may have a chance!" Alexander swept Rosamund off her feet and kissed her deeply.

Rosamund giggled girlishly. "Well, I eagerly await your letter...er...how long should I wait?" she asked.

"No more than a fortnight," Alex replied. The determination in his demeanor made him look nearly jubilant. "I'd best be on my way back, so-ah, wait, let me walk you inside the Chantry first," said the Prince. He gallantly offered her his arm and led her inside. Before opening the door, he gave her one last light kiss.

"Be safe, darling, and be strong," whispered Alex into Rosie's ear. With that, he drew his cloak around him and mounted his horse, then rode off. The darkness of the night enveloped the Prince like the darkness of the tomb.

Rosamund shut the door and quickly slipped off to bed.There was a familiar figure watching her from the shadows the entire time, but she had failed to notice him. And the days of peace were coming to an end-but she had failed to notice that too.


End file.
